And we sit on the poop, Miss West and I, tended on by servants,
sipping afternoon tea, sewing fancy work, discussing philosophy and
art, while a few feet away from us, on this tiny floating world, all
the grimy, sordid tragedy of sordid, malformed, brutish life plays
itself out. And Captain West, remote, untroubled, sits dreaming in
the twilight cabin while the draught of wind from the crojack blows
upon him through the open ports. He has no doubts, no worries. He
believes in God. All is settled and clear and well as he nears his
far home. His serenity is vast and enviable. But I cannot shake
from my eyes that vision of him when life forsook his veins, and his
mouth slacked, and his eyelids closed, while his face took on the
white transparency of death.
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