afford to chuckle. That fellow was probably chuckling to himself. It's
very possible he had been before at the game and didn't care a rap for
the bit of evidence left behind. It was a game in which practice made
one bold and successful, too.

"And again he laughed faintly. But his commanding officer was in
revolt against the murderous stealthiness of methods and the atrocious
callousness of complicities that seemed to taint the very source of
men's deep emotions and noblest activities; to corrupt their
imagination which builds up the final conceptions of life and death. He
suffered-------"

The voice from the sofa interrupted the narrator.

"How well I can understand that in him!"

He bent forward slightly.

"Yes. I, too. Everything should be open in love and war. Open as
the day, since both are the call of an ideal which it is so easy, so
terribly easy, to degrade in the name of Victory."

He paused; then went on: I don't know that the commanding officer delved
so deep as that into his feelings. But he did suffer from them--a sort
of disenchanted sadness. It is possible, even, that he suspected himself
of folly. Man is various. But he had no time for much introspection,
because from the southwest a wall of fog had advanced upon his ship.
Great convolutions of vapours flew over, swirling about masts and
funnel, which looked as if they were beginning to melt. Then they
vanished.