rs, a sensation of extraordinary loneliness and dreary
failure. I envisaged the _Manola_ lying snug and respectable at her
berth in the little harbour, all the dingy details of her stark utility
apparent in the transparent morning air. I saw myself ascending the
gangway, and the startled air of amused surprise on the face of the
night watchman projected abruptly from the gallery. I saw Jack, asleep
in his room, his mouth open, his limbs flung wide, his hairy chest
showing through the open pajamas, a rumbling snore filling the neat
room. And I came to the singular and illogical conviction that if I went
aboard immediately I would regret it. I should carry away with me into
the future a memory of shabby and furtive behaviour. And I did not want
that, I can assure you. I wanted this thing to remain somewhat as I had
experienced it. I felt that I must make the most of it. We grow very
humble in our emotional demands as we grow older, I observe. We who go
to sea especially. One of the inevitable products of our rolling
existence. And I stood, irresolute, in front of the open doorway leading
to the flat above, and Pollyni Sarafov stood there watching me. She came
down.

"'Let me tell you something,' she began. 'I think you ought to go and
see her father. Didn't you say you used to know him in America? Just
think! She was all he had.'

"'What am I to say to him if I go?' I demanded. 'You know very well that
he thinks she is ... eh? How shall I explain when I come in?'

"'Never mind that,' she said, shaking her head. 'You come.'

"And she became extraordinarily light-hearted when I said I would. She
ran in and got her hat and parasol. She came out prinking and clicking
her high-heeled shoes, and she placed her hand as lightly as a feather
upon my arm. Perhaps she really needed my support down that steep,
narrow street, but I read into that delicate gesture a profound moral
significance. And I can tell you another thing," added Mr. Spenlove with
some vehemence. "I found myself regarding the whole sum of human grief
with moody suspicion. I recalled a fine phrase I had once read of 'the
great stream of human tears falling always through the shadows of the
world,' and I dismissed it as fudge. I was half tempted to wonder
whether the world, which had grown out of stage coaches and sailing
ships and Italian opera, had not grown out of grief at the same time.
And by heavens, what has happened during the past two or three years has