He paused, open-mouthed, on the verge of the pit of his own depravity and utter worthlessness to breathe the same air she did.  And while Arthur took up the tale, for the twentieth time, of his adventure with the drunken hoodlums on the ferry-boat and of how Martin Eden had rushed in and rescued him, that individual, with frowning brows, meditated upon the fool he had made of himself, and wrestled more determinedly with the problem of how he should conduct himself toward these people.  He certainly had not succeeded so far.  He wasn’t of their tribe, and he couldn’t talk their lingo, was the way he put it to himself.  He couldn’t fake being their kind.  The masquerade would fail, and besides, masquerade was foreign to his nature.  There was no room in him for sham or artifice.  Whatever happened, he must be real.  He couldn’t talk their talk just yet, though in time he would.  Upon that he was resolved.  But in the meantime, talk he must, and it must be his own talk, toned down, of course, so as to be comprehensible to them and so as not to shook them too much.  And furthermore, he wouldn’t claim, not even by tacit acceptance, to be familiar with anything that was unfamiliar.  In pursuance of this decision, when the two brothers, talking university shop, had used “trig” several times, Martin Eden demanded:-

“What is trig?”

“Trignometry,” Norman said; “a higher form of math.”

“And what is math?” was the next question, which, somehow, brought the laugh on Norman.

“Mathematics, arithmetic,” was the answer.

Martin Eden nodded.  He had caught a glimpse of the apparently illimitable vistas of knowledge.  What he saw took on tangibility.  His abnormal power of vision made abstractions take on concrete form.  In the alchemy of his brain, trigonometry and mathematics and the whole field of knowledge which they betokened were transmuted into so much landscape.  The vistas he saw were vistas of green foliage and forest glades, all softly luminous or shot through with flashing lights.  In the distance, detail was veiled and blurred by a purple haze, but behind this purple haze, he knew, was the glamour of the unknown, the lure of romance.  It was like wine to him.  Here was adventure, something to do with head and hand, a world to conquer—­and straightway from the back of his consciousness rushed the thought, conquering, to win to her, that lily-pale spirit sitting beside him.

The glimmering vision was rent asunder and dissipated by Arthur, who, all evening, had been trying to draw his wild man out.  Martin Eden remembered his decision.  For the first time he became himself, consciously and deliberately at first, but soon lost in the joy of creating in making life as he knew it appear before his listeners’ eyes.  He had been a member of the crew of the smuggling schooner Halcyon when she was captured by a revenue cutter.  He saw with wide eyes, and he could tell what he