life. He was a brilliant entertainer, with an easy, happy way in
conversation of popularising his rich store of knowledge, and with a
light humour, which stood at his command even when, as now, grim humour
crawled in the depths of his being, like evil reptiles. Thus it was that
the captain's corner that evening fell under his spell, both of his
jocular self and serious self.

Though he had lost his belief that science and modern progress alone
possess the power to convey happiness, he extolled their virtues. As a
matter of fact, in the festive gleam of the countless electric lights,
excited by the wine, the music, and the rhythmic pulse beat of the moving
vessel, it seemed to him at times as if humanity in a festal procession
with music playing were sailing to the Isles of the Blessed. Perhaps, he
said, science may some day teach man the secret of immortality. Ways and
means would be found to keep the cells of the body young. Dead animals
had been brought back to life by pumping a salt solution into them. He
spoke of the wonders of surgery, always the theme of conversation when a
man of the present, over his champagne and pâté de foie gras, triumphs in
the superiority of his age over all other ages. In a short while, he
declared, chemistry would solve the social question, and man would forget
what it is to worry about food. Why, chemistry was on the verge of
discovering how to make bread of stones, a thing that hitherto only
plants could do. Frederick continued in a similar strain, speaking
by rote, and scarcely looking up, yet fascinating his listeners.

But in the midst of the whirl of self-intoxication, he thought with a
shudder of bedtime, knowing he should not close his eyes the whole night.
And what recompense was the brightest height of the clearest day for the
hell of a single sleepless night, such as he had often spent within the
last years.