everlasting sombre stress of the westward winter passage round Cape Horn.  For that too is the wrestling of men with the might of their Creator, in a great isolation from the world, without the amenities and consolations of life, a lonely struggle under a sense of over-matched littleness, for no reward that could be adequate, but for the mere winning of a longitude.  Yet a certain longitude, once won, cannot be disputed.  The sun and the stars and the shape of your earth are the witnesses of your gain; whereas a handful of pages, no matter how much you have made them your own, are at best but an obscure and questionable spoil.  Here they are.  “Failure”—­“Astonishing”:  take your choice; or perhaps both, or neither—­a mere rustle and flutter of pieces of paper settling down in the night, and undistinguishable, like the snowflakes of a great drift destined to melt away in the sunshine.

“How do you do?”

It was the greeting of the general’s daughter.  I had heard nothing—­no rustle, no footsteps.  I had felt only a moment before a sort of premonition of evil; I had the sense of an inauspicious presence—­just that much warning and no more; and then came the sound of the voice and the jar as of a terrible fall from a great height—­a fall, let us say, from the highest of the clouds floating in gentle procession over the fields in the faint westerly air of that July afternoon.  I picked myself up quickly, of course; in other words, I jumped up from my chair stunned and dazed, every nerve quivering with the pain of being uprooted out of one world and flung down into another—­perfectly civil.

“Oh!  How do you do?  Won’t you sit down?”

That’s what I said.  This horrible but, I assure you, perfectly true reminiscence tells you more than a whole volume of confessions a la Jean Jacques Rousseau would do.  Observe!  I didn’t howl at her, or start upsetting furniture, or throw myself on the floor and kick, or allow myself to hint in any other way at the appalling magnitude of the disaster.  The whole world of Costaguana (the country, you may remember, of my seaboard tale), men, women, headlands, houses, mountains, town, campo (there was not a single brick, stone, or grain of sand of its soil I had not placed in position with my own hands); all the history, geography, politics, finance; the wealth of Charles Gould’s silver-mine, and the splendour of the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, whose name, cried out in the night (Dr. Monygham heard it pass over his head—­in Linda Viola’s voice), dominated even after death the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure and love—­all that had come down crashing about my ears.  I felt I could never pick up the pieces—­and in that very moment I was saying, “Won’t you sit down?”