n, a disc of richer gold. The gold of the sky grew more
golden, then tarnished before our eyes and began to glow faintly with
red. As the red deepened, a mist spread over the whole sheet of gold and
the burning yellow sun. Turner was never guilty of so audacious an orgy
in gold-mist.

Presently, along the horizon, entirely completing the circle of sea and
sky, the tight-packed shapes of the trade wind clouds began to show
through the mist; and as they took form they spilled with rose-colour at
their upper edges, while their bases were a pulsing, bluish-white. I say
it advisedly. All the colours of this display _pulsed_.

As the gold-mist continued to clear away, the colours became garish,
bold; the turquoises went into greens and the roses turned to the red of
blood. And the purple and indigo of the long swells of sea were bronzed
with the colour-riot in the sky, while across the water, like gigantic
serpents, crawled red and green sky-reflections. And then all the
gorgeousness quickly dulled, and the warm, tropic darkness drew about us.

CHAPTER XXVI

The _Elsinore_ is truly the ship of souls, the world in miniature; and,
because she is such a small world, cleaving this vastitude of ocean as
our larger world cleaves space, the strange juxtapositions that
continually occur are startling.

For instance, this afternoon on the poop. Let me describe it. Here was
Miss West, in a crisp duck sailor suit, immaculately white, open at the
throat, where, under the broad collar, was knotted a man-of-war black
silk neckerchief. Her smooth-groomed hair, a trifle rebellious in the
breeze, was glorious. And here was I, in white ducks, white shoes, and
white silk shirt, as immaculate and well-tended as she. The steward was
just bringing the pretty tea-service for Miss West, and in the background
Wada hovered.

We had been discussing philosophy--or, rather, I had been feeling her
out; and from a sketch of Spinoza's anticipations of the modern mind,
through the speculative interpretations of the latest achievements in
physics of Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir William Ramsay, I had come, as usual,
to De Casseres, whom I was quoting, when Mr. Pike snarled orders to the
watch.

"'In this rise into the azure of pure perception, attainable only by a
very few human beings, the spectacular sense is born,'." I was quoting.
"'Life is no longer good or evil. It is a perpetual play of forces
without beginning or end. The fre