r in
monasteries develop traits of profound resemblance. This must be
because the service of the sea and the service of a temple are both
detached from the vanities and errors of a world which follows no severe
rule. The men of the sea understand each other very well in their view
of earthly things, for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not
a bad educator. A turn of mind composed of innocence and scepticism is
common to them all, with the addition of an unexpected insight into
motives, as of disinterested lookers-on at a game. Mr Powell took me
aside to say, "I like the things he says."

"You understand each other pretty well," I observed.

"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to look at his
cutter still riding to the flood. "He's the sort that's always chasing
some notion or other round and round his head just for the fun of the
thing."

"Keeps them in good condition," I said.

"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted.

"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?"

"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not
difficult to get on with. "I like him, very well," he continued,
"though it isn't easy to make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or
two. What's he doing?"

I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort
of half-hearted fashion some years ago.

Mr Powell's comment was: "Fancied he'd had enough of it?"

"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection," I observed,
remembering the subtly provisional character of Marlow's long sojourn
amongst us. From year to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the
branch of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque flight into its
true element that it is incomprehensible why it should sit still minute
after minute. The sea is the sailor's true element, and Marlow,
lingering on shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration
like a bird, which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the high
virtue of flying.

PART ONE, CHAPTER 2.

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND.

We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and
deliberate, approached the window where Mr Powell and I had retired.

"What was the name of your chance again?" he asked.

Mr Powell stared for a moment.

"Oh! The _Ferndale_. A Liverpool ship. Composite built."

"_Ferndale_," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "_Ferndale_."

"Know her?"

"Our friend," I said,