easily go ashore if they would.

It still wanted two hours of dinner, and by the time Vogelstein's
long legs had measured three or four miles on the deck he was ready
to settle himself in his sea-chair and draw from his pocket a
Tauchnitz novel by an American author whose pages, he had been
assured, would help to prepare him for some of the oddities. On the
back of his chair his name was painted in rather large letters, this
being a precaution taken at the recommendation of a friend who had
told him that on the American steamers the passengers--especially
the ladies--thought nothing of pilfering one's little comforts. His
friend had even hinted at the correct reproduction of his coronet.
This marked man of the world had added that the Americans are
greatly impressed by a coronet. I know not whether it was
scepticism or modesty, but Count Vogelstein had omitted every
pictured plea for his rank; there were others of which he might have
made use. The precious piece of furniture which on the Atlantic
voyage is trusted never to flinch among universal concussions was
emblazoned simply with his title and name. It happened, however,
that the blazonry was huge; the back of the chair was covered with
enormous German characters. This time there can be no doubt: it
was modesty that caused the secretary of legation, in placing
himself, to turn this portion of his seat outward, away from the
eyes of his companions--to present it to the balustrade of the deck.
The ship was passing the Needles--the beautiful uttermost point of
the Isle of Wight. Certain tall white cones of rock rose out of the
purple sea; they flushed in the afternoon light and their vague
rosiness gave them a human expression in face of the cold expanse
toward which the prow was turned; they seemed to say farewell, to be
the last note of a peopled world. Vogelstein saw them very