and exultation. Poised upon uncertainty, she was sure. The camber
of her white-scrubbed decks, the long, clean sheer of her hull,
the concave flare of her bows--what was the amazing joy and
rightness of these things? And yet the grotesque passengers
regarded her only as a vehicle, to carry them sedatively to some
clamouring dock. Fools! She was more lovely than anything they
would ever see again! He yearned to drive her endlessly toward
that unreachable perimeter of sky.

On land there had been definite horizons, even if disappointing
when reached and examined; but here there was no horizon at all.
Every hour it slid and slid over the dark orb of sea. He lost
count of time. The tremulous cradling of the Pomerania, steadily
climbing the long leagues; her noble forecastle solemnly lifting
against heaven, then descending with grave beauty into a spread
of foaming beryl and snowdrift, seemed one with the rhythm of his
pulse and heart. Perhaps there had been more than mere ingenuity
in his last riddle for the theological skipper. Truly the
subconscious had usurped him. Here he was almost happy, for he
was almost unaware of life. It was all blue vacancy and
suspension. The sea is the great answer and consoler, for it
means either nothing or everything, and so need not tease the
brain.

But the passengers, though unobservant, began to murmur;
especially those who had wagered that the Pomerania would dock on
the eighth day. The world itself, they complained, was created in
seven days, and why should so fine a ship take longer to cross a
comparatively small ocean? Urbanely, over coffee and petite
fours, Gissing argued with them. They were well on their way, he