damp woolens, and the air was so humid
that drops of moisture kept gathering upon his hair and mustache. He
seldom moved except to brush them away. The great open spaces made
him passive and the restlessness of the water quieted him. He intended
during the voyage to decide upon a course of action, but he held all
this away from him for the present and lay in a blessed gray
oblivion. Deep down in him somewhere his resolution was weakening and
strengthening, ebbing and flowing. The thing that perturbed him went on
as steadily as his pulse, but he was almost unconscious of it. He was
submerged in the vast impersonal grayness about him, and at intervals
the sidelong roll of the boat measured off time like the ticking of a
clock. He felt released from everything that troubled and perplexed
him. It was as if he had tricked and outwitted torturing memories, had
actually managed to get on board without them. He thought of nothing at
all. If his mind now and again picked a face out of the grayness, it was
Lucius Wilson's, or the face of an old schoolmate, forgotten for years;
or it was the slim outline of a favorite greyhound he used to hunt
jack-rabbits with when he was a boy.

Toward six o'clock the wind rose and tugged at the tarpaulin and brought
the swell higher. After dinner Alexander came back to the wet deck,
piled his damp rugs over him again, and sat smoking, losing himself in
the obliterating blackness and drowsing in the rush of the gale. Before
he went below a few bright stars were pricked off between heavily moving
masses of cloud.

The next morning was bright and mild, with a fresh breeze. Alexander
felt the need of exercise even before he came out of his cabin. When he
went on deck the sky was blue and blinding, with heavy whiffs of white
cloud, smoke-colored at the edges, moving rapidly across it. The water
was roughish, a cold, clear indigo breaking into whitecaps. Bartley
walked for two hours, and then stretched himself in the sun until
lunch-time.

In the afternoon he wrote a long letter to Winifred. Later, as he walked
the deck through a splendid golden sunset, his spirits rose continually.
It was agreeable to come to himself again after several days of numbness
and torpor. He stayed out until the last tinge of violet had faded from
the water. There was literally a taste of life on his lips as he
sat down to dinner and ordered a bottle of champagne. He was late in
finishing his dinner, and drank rather m