He blamed Wilfrid Flushing, who was so well dressed and so formal; he blamed Hewet and Rachel.

Why didn't they talk?
He looked at them sitting silent and self-absorbed, and the sight annoyed him.

He supposed that they were engaged, or about to become engaged, but instead of being in the least romantic or exciting, that was as dull as everything else; it annoyed him, too, to think that they were in love.
He drew close to Helen and began to tell her how uncomfortable his night had been, lying on the deck, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold, and the stars so bright that he couldn't get to sleep.

He had lain awake all night thinking, and when it was light enough to see, he had written twenty lines of his poem on God, and the awful thing was that he'd practically proved the fact that God did not exist.

He did not see that he was teasing her, and he went on to wonder what would happen if God did exist--"an old gentleman in a beard and a long blue dressing gown, extremely testy and disagreeable as he's bound to be?
Can you suggest a rhyme?
God, rod, sod--all used; any others ?" Although he spoke much as usual, Helen could have seen, had she looked, that he was also impatient and disturbed.