Varney looked around at the sound of footsteps, and was considerably
struck by his friend's appearance.

"Feeling well, old man?" he asked with solicitude.

"Certainly."

"Not seasick at all? You won't let me fetch you the hot-water bottle?"

"No, ass."

Peter sank down in an upholstered wicker chair with pillows in it, and
looked out appreciatively at the night. The yacht's lights were set, but
her deck bulbs hung dark; for the soft and shimmering radiance of the
sky made man's illumination an offense.

However, aesthetics, like everything else, has its place in human
economy and no more. No one aboard the _Cypriani_ became so absorbed in
the marvels of nature as to become insensible to other pleasures. The
air, new and fine from the hands of its Maker, acquired a distinct
flavor of nicotine as it flitted past the yacht. From some hidden depth
rose the subdued and convalescent snores of that early retirer, the
sailing-master's wife. Below forward, two deck-hands were thoughtfully
playing set-back for pennies, while a machinist sat by and read a
sporting extra by a swinging bulb. Above forward, on a coil of rope,
McTosh, the head steward and one of Mr. Carstairs's oldest servants,
smoked a bad pipe, and expectorated stoically into the Hudson.

The thought of the essential commonplaceness of this sort of thing
recurred to Peter Maginnis. For all his life of idleness, which was, as