No; it was something else that annoyed him about the man—­certain almost contemptuous remarks he had dropped in the course of the evening on the subject of the female sex; not any particular member of it, but the sex in general.  Mr. Heard was sensitive on that point.  He was not disheartened by experience.  He had never allowed his judgment to be warped by those degrading aspects of womanhood which he had encountered ruing his work among the London poor, and more recently in Africa, where women are treated as the veriest beasts.  He kept his ideals bright.  He would tolerate no flippant allusions to the sex.  Muhlen’s talk had left a bad taste in his mouth.

And here he was, prancing up and down, sublimely pleased with himself.  Mr. Heard watched his perambulations with mixed feelings—­moral disapproval combining with a small grain of envy at the fellow’s conspicuous immunity from the prevailing sea-sickness.

A weed; unquestionably a weed.

Meanwhile, the mainland slowly receded.  Morning wore on, and under the fierce attraction of the sun the fogs were drawn upwards.  Nepenthe became tangible—­an authentic island.  It gleamed with golden rocks and emerald patches of culture.  A cluster of white houses, some town or village, lay perched on the middle heights where a playful sunbeam had struck a pathway through the vapours.  The curtain was lifted.  Half lifted; for the volcanic peaks and ravines overhead were still shrouded in pearly mystery.

The fat priest looked up from his breviary and smiled in friendly fashion.

“I heard you speak English to that person,” he began, with hardly a trace of foreign accent.  “You will pardon me.  I see you are unwell.  May I get you a lemon?  Or perhaps a glass of cognac?”

“I am feeling better, thank you.  It must have been the sight of those poor people that upset me.  They seem to suffer horribly.  I suppose I have got used to it.”

“They do suffer.  And they get used to it too.  I often wonder whether they are as susceptible to pain and discomfort as the rich with their finer nervous structure.  Who can say?  Animals also have their sufferings, but they are not encouraged to tell us about them.  Perhaps that is why God made them dumb.  Zola, in one of his novels, speaks of a sea-sick donkey.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Heard.  It was an old-fashioned trick he had got from his mother.  “Dear me!”

He wondered what this youthful ecclesiastic was doing with Zola.  In fact, he was slightly shocked.  But he never allowed such a state of affairs to be noticed.

“You like Zola?” he queried.

“Not much.  He is rather a dirty dog, and his technique is so ridiculously transparent.  But one can’t help respecting the man.  If I were to read this class of literature for my own amusement I would prefer, I think, Catulle Mendes.  But I don’t.  I read it, you understand, in order to be able to penetrate into the minds of my penitents, many of whom refuse to deprive themselves of such books.  Women are so influenced by what they read!  Personally, I am not very fond of improper writers.  And yet they sometimes make one laugh in spite of one’s self, don’t they?  I perceive you are feeling better.”