I remember very well the first time I became aware of the deep and
consoling significance of food. It was one evening at Marlow's, we
were sitting by the hearth in that small gilded circle of firelight
that seems so like the pitiful consciousness of man, temporarily and
gallantly relieved against the all-covering darkness. Marlow was in
his usual posture, cross-legged on the rug. He was talking.... I
couldn't help wondering whether he ever gets pins and needles in his
legs, sitting so long in one position. Very often, you know, what
those Eastern visionaries mistake for the authentic visit of
Ghautama Buddha is merely pins and needles. However. Humph. Poor
Mrs. Marlow (have I mentioned her before?) was sitting somewhere in
the rear of the circle. I had a curious but quite distinct
impression that she wanted to say something, that she had, as people
say, something on her mind. But Marlow has a way of casting
pregnancy over even his pauses, so that to speak would seem a quite
unpardonable interruption.

"The power of mind over matter," said Marlow, suddenly, "a very odd
speculation. When I was on the _Soliloquy_, I remember one evening,
in the fiery serenity of a Sourabaja sunset, there was an old
serang...."

In the ample drawing room, lit only by those flickering gleams of
firelight, I seemed to see the others stir faintly--not so much a
physical stir as a half-divined spiritual uneasiness. The Director
was sitting too close to the glow, for the fire had deepened and
intensified as the great logs slowly burned into rosy embers, and I
could smell a whiff of scorching trouser legs; but the courageous
man dared not move, for fear of breaking the spell. Marlow's tale
was a powerful one: I could hear Mrs. Marlow suspire faintly, ever