He drank.

“Ah!  The good old time—­the good old time.  Youth and the sea.  Glamour and the sea!  The good, strong sea, the salt, bitter sea, that could whisper to you and roar at you and knock your breath out of you.”

He drank again.

“By all that’s wonderful, it is the sea, I believe, the sea itself—­or is it youth alone?  Who can tell?  But you here—­you all had something out of life:  money, love—­whatever one gets on shore—­and, tell me, wasn’t that the best time, that time when we were young at sea; young and had nothing, on the sea that gives nothing, except hard knocks—­and sometimes a chance to feel your strength—­that only—­what you all regret?”

And we all nodded at him:  the man of finance, the man of accounts, the man of law, we all nodded at him over the polished table that like a still sheet of brown water reflected our faces, lined, wrinkled; our faces marked by toil, by deceptions, by success, by love; our weary eyes looking still, looking always, looking anxiously for something out of life, that while it is expected is already gone—­has passed unseen, in a sigh, in a flash—­together with the youth, with the strength, with the romance of illusions.