of stone were already losing their bright enamel under the withering heat; a peculiar odour, acrid but stimulating to the nostrils, rose from the parched ground.  Here he rested awhile.  He scanned the landscape through his glasses—­a wine-coloured sea at his feet, flecked with sailing boats innumerable; confronting him from the volcano whose playful antics were even then attracting the attention of a crowded Piazza.  And his eye roved along the serrated contours of the mainland, its undulating shore-line, its distant peaks throbbing in the sunset glow; they rested upon many villages, coral-tinted specks of light, so far away they seemed to belong to another world.  It was a pleasure to breathe on these aerial heights, surrounded by sky and sea; to survey the world as a bird might survey it.  Like floating in air. . . .

He sat and smoked and pondered.  He tried to get himself into perspective.  “I must straighten myself out,” he thought.  Assuredly it was a restful place, this Nepenthe, abounding in kindly people; his affection for it grew with every day.  Rest without; but where was that old rest within, that sense of plain tasks plainly to be performed, of tangible duty?  Whither had it gone?  Alien influences were at work upon him.  Something new had insinuated itself into his blood, some demon of doubt and disquiet which threatened his old-established conceptions.  Whence came it?  The effect of changed environment—­new friends, new food, new habits?  The unaccustomed leisure which gave him, for the first time, a chance of thinking about non-professional matters?  The south wind acting on his still weakened health?  All these together?  Or had he reached an epoch in his development, the termination of one of those definite life—­periods when all men worthy of the name pass through some cleansing process of spiritual desquamation, and slip their outworn weeds of thought and feeling?

Whatever it was he seemed to be no longer his own master, as in former days.  Fate had caused his feet to stray towards something new—­something alarming.  He was poised, as it were, on the brink of a gulf.  Or rather, it was as if that old mind of his, like a boat sailing hitherto briskly before the wind, had suddenly encountered a bank of calm, of utter and ominous calm; it was a thing spell-bound; a toy of circumstances beyond human control.  The canvas hung in the stagnant air.  From which quarter would the quickening breeze arrive?  Whither would it bring him?

And his glance fell upon a slender coquettish vessel, a new-comer, lying in the sunny harbour under the cliff.  He knew it from hearsay.  It was the FLUTTERBY, van Koppen’s yacht.  He recollected all he had ever heard about the millionaire; he tried to conjure up some idea of his features and habits from gossip overheard at odd moments.