And no sleep! Another weary night of torment, and another dreary,
overcast day and leaden, troubled sea. And no Miss West. Wada, too,
is sea-sick, although heroically he kept his feet and tried to tend
on me with glassy, unseeing eyes. I sent him to his bunk, and read
through the endless hours until my eyes were tired, and my brain,
between lack of sleep and over-use, was fuzzy.
Captain West is no conversationalist. The more I see of him the more
I am baffled. I have not yet found a reason for that first
impression I received of him. He has all the poise and air of a
remote and superior being, and yet I wonder if it be not poise and
air and nothing else. Just as I had expected, that first meeting,
ere he spoke a word, to hear fall from his lips words of untold
beneficence and wisdom, and then heard him utter mere social
commonplaces, so I now find myself almost forced to conclude that his
touch of race, and beak of power, and all the tall, aristocratic
slenderness of him have nothing behind them.
And yet, on the other hand, I can find no reason for rejecting that
first impression.
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