"the most difficult thing on earth--and, I may remark, the most
important--is realization of one's sphere, and one's place in that
sphere. And our way of instructing the young in such realization is
defective, defective to a degree at present. Queerly enough I am just
reading Tagore on 'Realization.' You know Tagore, of course?"

She shook her head.

"He is the Bengali poet who was recently honoured by His Majesty with a
knighthood. Perhaps you would like to change books and see what he says?
I have marked something on page sixteen that is helpful, particularly
helpful."

"Thank you. But take care of my book, won't you? It is very precious,
because it belonged to my father."

She looked into "Realization," but its cool calmness failed to grip her
at first, and she lay back in her chair, the breeze fanning her hair,
the deep blue of the sky flecked with little cirrus clouds above her as
she dreamed. Presently the schoolmaster went below for tea, and she was
left alone. She had decided that she did not want tea; after this quiet
place the saloon seemed too noisy, and now that seven o'clock was
drawing nearer she was feeling rather frightened.

The gold in the air was collected into a great ball that turned crimson
in the west, touching the crests of the waves with red as though blood
had been splashed upon them, setting Marcella's hair afire, turning her
white frock rosy-pink. Two bells sounded, and the sea and the sky grew
deep blue, while shadows began to slink about the decks and stalk over
the water; grey veils fell over the western sky, and she sat up