was not excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated a good way
further back in the fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes,
in the country. This chance meeting with a man who had sailed with
Captain Anthony had revived it. It had revived it to some purpose, to
such purpose that to me too was given the knowledge of its origin and of
its nature. It was given to me in several stages, at intervals which are
not indicated here. On this first occasion I remarked to Marlow with
some surprise:

"But, if I remember rightly you said you didn't know Captain Anthony."

"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn
little Fyne's deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife's
brother "the son of the poet, you know." He had just arrived in London
from a long voyage, and, directly his occupations permitted, was coming
down to stay with his relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should
find many things to talk about by ourselves in reference to our common
calling, added little Fyne portentously in his grave undertones, as if
the Mercantile Marine were a secret society.

You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, in
their holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence in town
I knew no more than may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with
Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early
enough to have tea with the whole family at a big round table. They sat
about it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even
the children were silent and as if contemptuous of each other and of
their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep down in his chest some
insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she had splendid
teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something which