(II)

In spite of all that he had seen in his journeys, he still found
an extraordinary fascination in watching the scene at Queenstown,
as the great Olympic-line volors, each carrying three hundred
passengers, one by one made ready and left. He himself was to
leave in the last of the four.

From the stage erected at the end of the long headland to the
south of the town, he could see the harbour on his right, closed
in by the city itself, rising up from the water's edge to the
huge cathedral, finished fifty years before; and on his left the
open sea. It was a brilliant spring morning; the air, just
charged with moisture and soaked by sunlight, was a radiant
medium through which the city sparkled on one side and the long,
low rollers shone on the other, discharging themselves against
the foot of the rocks four hundred feet below where he stood.
Sea-birds wheeled and screamed about him, tilting and sliding up
the slopes of the fresh west wind; but he noticed that as the
first volor detached itself and slid out over the sea, pausing
for an instant to head round to the compass, as if by magic every
bird was gone: he could see them far away, white dots skimming
inland as if for protection.

These Transatlantic volors were incalculably in advance of any he
had seen before. He turned, as the first moved out, its long
upper and lower decks lined with watching, silent faces--of whom
the great majority were those of men--and asked for a little
information from the genial Irish canon who had come from the
cathedral with him, to see him start.