Little ado about that ruling class, monied and titled, and its takeover by a pretty girl whose character is not only open to question but even uncertain in the mind of the author who has not endowed her with much of anything beyond a certain appetence in the sack. Thus Anne Manson, actually a common little strumpet, is not in the line of great opportunists -- like Clarissa Harlowe or Becky Sharp -- but, due to the circumstances (or gentlemen) she's on top of, manages to make her inadvertent upswing. Affianced to Kenny, the son of a leading steamship line (viz. Cunard), Anne is still carrying on with her room steward, Archie, when she is forced to kill Kenny and they both dispose of him through the porthole. Only for Anne to learn that she has been given all title to Kenny's estate which puts her in the calculating hands of Kenny's mother, en route to displacing her fourth husband, and Kenny's father Sir Gilbert -- most put out by the will, with only her own father, the soul of rectitude, prepared to impose some sort of retribution. From then on it's almost open season and Mr. Gloag guys everyone around all the way to the confessional booth. Parody in the form of a floating soap opera and once you get into the properly improper spirit of it, you might be diverted.