o the
skylight-seat. Whence he concluded that the `old gentleman,' who wore a
grey cap like the captain's, was sitting by her--his daughter. In his
first astonishment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence that
now he felt very much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he
couldn't very well turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there
on duty. So, still with downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only
when he got as far as the wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden
from him by the back of her deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner
of the thin, aged legs seated on the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek,
his thin compressed mouth with a hollow in each corner, the sparse grey
locks escaping from under the tweed cap, and curling slightly on the
collar of the coat. He leaned forward a little over Mrs Anthony, but
they were not talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a springy hurried
gait on the other side of the poop from end to end, gazed straight
before him. Young Powell might have thought that his captain was not
aware of his presence either. However, he knew better, and for that
reason spent a most uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before
his captain stopped in his swift pacing and with an almost visible
effort made some remark to him about the weather in a low voice. Before
Powell, who was startled, could find a word of answer, the captain swung
off again on his endless tramp with a fixed gaze. And till the supper
bell rang silence dwelt over that poop like an evil spell. The captain
walked up and down looking straight before him, the helmsman steered,
looking upwards at the sails, the old gent on the skylight looked down
on his daughter--and Mr Powell confessed to me that he didn't know
where to look, feeling as though he had blundered in where he had no
business--which was absurd. At last he fastened his eyes on the compass
card, took refuge, in spirit, inside the binnacle. He felt chilled more
than he should have been by the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green
sea of the soundings from a smoothly clouded sky. A fitful wind swept
the cheerless waste, and the ship, hauled up so close as to check her
way, seemed to progress by languid fits and starts against the short
seas which swept along her sides with a snarling sound.

Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the
sea he had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of