ither did it narrow down his interests to the
sordid goal to which he aspired. The boding apprehension which was
rising like a black cloud at the back of his mind, that he was
neglecting his work, only reflected and magnified the blaze of his
resentment. What encouragement had he, he would like to know. Here he
was, slaving away, and no satisfaction. Nothing he did was right. Spied
on! Ignored! Treated like a dog! Well, he would see. If this little
business of Archy's came off, he would see if he was going to be trodden
on by any shipmaster. Archy....

For a moment the clear vision of Archy obsequiously waiting on the
captain, getting him some hot water perhaps, or laying out a fresh suit
of underwear, troubled the darkness of Mr. Spokesly's ruminations. A
clear vision, such as even the mediocre have at times. And close to it,
as though another miniature in another oval frame, a sharp, clear-cut
memory of Ada Rivers looking up at him with gray adoring eyes, the proud
tremble of her passionate mouth, the curve of her white throat....

Mr. Spokesly rose to his feet and he caught sight of the naked girl
sitting on Archy's knee, and of the bourgeois little face looking out
from behind it. Archy's wife! A long dizzy wave of revulsion made Mr.
Spokesly feel momentarily faint and he clutched the edge of the bunk
board. For a moment he stood, slack-mouthed and moody-eyed, gazing at
the photographs. Then he turned away and crept softly along the
corridor.

Archy was surprised, on his return, to find him gone.

CHAPTER III

Much of the diversity and nearly all the bitterness of our lives are due
to the fact that only rarely do we encounter our exact contemporaries.
In any sphere where all start at a prescribed age, as in great
universities and public services, there is a tendency to become
standardized, to be only one example of a prevalent type. Ambition is
cooerdinated, jealousy is neutralized; and the hot lava-flow of
individualist passion cools and hardens to an admirable solidity and
composure. One's exact contemporaries are around in throngs. One has no
misgivings, no heartburn, no exasperation with fate. The fortunate being
whose destiny lies this way takes on the gravity, the immobility, and
the polish of an antique statue. The common people pass him as they pass
the Elgin marbles--without emotion; but they are aware subconsciously of
the cold pure beauty of outline, the absolute fidelity to type, which is
t