By 4 p.m. the atmosphere was becoming rather unpleasant and hot, and
gradually we took off more clothes. Curiously enough, I longed for a
smoke, but wild horses would not have made me ask Alten for permission.

At 8 p.m. it was sufficiently dark to enable us to rise, which gave me
great pleasure, though the first rush of fresh air down the hatch made
me vomit after hours of breathing the vitiated muck. On coming to the
surface we saw nothing in sight, but a breeze had sprung up which
caused spray to break over the bridge as we chugged along at 9 knots.

Everyone was in high spirits, as always on the return journey, when the
mind turns to the Fatherland and all it holds.

My mind turns to Zoe. I confess it to myself frankly. I hardly realized
to what extent this woman had begun to influence me until we received
the wireless signal ordering us to delay entering for twelve hours. The
receipt of this news, trivial though the delay has been, threw a mantle
of gloom over the crew. I participated in the depression and, upon
thought, rather wondered that this should be so. Self-analysis on the
lines laid down by Schessmanweil [1] revealed to me that the basis of
my annoyance is the fact that my next meeting with Zoe is deferred! I
feel instinctively that I shall have trouble here, and that I had
better haul off a lee shore whilst there is manoeuvring room, and
yet--and yet I secretly rejoice that every revolution of the propeller,
every clank and rattle of the Diesels brings us closer together.

[Footnote 1: Apparently some German author, of obscure origin, as I
cannot find him in any book of reference.--ETIENNE.]

Alten has just come down from the bridge, and we chatted for some