And the sea lay a blue, uninhabited glory save as land that Barnay knew about marked low blades of smoke on the horizon and slipped back into blue sheaths.
This was the evening of the seventh day, and that noon Jarvo had looked despondent, and Barnay had sworn strange oaths, and St.
George had been disquieted.

He stood up now, going vaguely down into his coat pockets for his pipe, his erect figure thrown in relief against the hurrying purple.

St.George was good to look at, and Amory, with the moonlight catching the glass of his pince-nez, smoked and watched him, shrewdly pondering upon exactly how much anxiety for the success of the enterprise was occupying the breast of his friend and how much of an emotion a good bit stronger.

Amory himself was not in love, but there existed between him and all who were a special kinship, like that between a lover of music and a musician.
Little Cawthorne rose and shuffled his feet lazily across deck.
"Where is that island, anyway ?" he wanted to know, gazing meditatively out to sea.
St.George turned as if the interruption was grateful.
"The island.

I don't see any island," complained Little Cawthorne.
"I tell you," he confided, "I guess it's just Chillingworth's little way of fixing up a nice long vacation for us." They smiled at memory of Chillingworth's grudging and snarling assents to even an hour off duty.
From below came Bennietod, walking slowly.