ng
faintly while I waited. He even laughed a little. And then I said
acidly:

"Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the
history of Flora de Barral?"

"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I
laughed--did I? But don't you know that people laugh at absurdities that
are very far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest books about
laughter written by philosophers, psychologists? There is a lot of them
. . . "

"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter--and
tears, too, for that matter," I said impatiently.

"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we laugh from a sense of
superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling,
delicacy of heart and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity are
laughed at, because the presence of these traits in a man's character
often puts him into difficult, cruel or absurd situations, and makes us,
the majority who are fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel
pleasantly superior."

"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you discovered all these fine
things in the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you in his
artless talk? Have you two been having good healthy laughs together?
Come! Are your sides aching yet, Marlow?"

Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious.

"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was," he
pursued with amusing caution. "But there was a situation, tense enough
for the signs of it to give many surprises to Mr. Powell--neither of them
shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect which made the whole
unforgettable in the detail of its progress. And the first surprise came
very soon, when the explosives (to which he owed his sudden chance of
engagement)--dynamite in cases and blasting powder in barrels--taken on
board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to his functions in the
galley, anchor fished and the tug ahead, rounding the South Foreland, and
with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple vista of the channel,
he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take the first
freer breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on board,
who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant
remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering wheel
and the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the break of the
poop. H