The young American hesitated for a little, debating in his mind whether he should not go down and post up the daily record of his impressions which he kept for his home-staying sister.

But the cigars of Colonel Cochrane and of Cecil Brown were still twinkling in the far corner of the deck, and the student was acquisitive in the search of information.
He did not quite know how to lead up to the matter, but the Colonel very soon did it for him.
"Come on, Headingly," said he, pushing a camp-stool in his direction.
"This is the place for an antidote.

I see that Fardet has been pouring politics into your ear." "I can always recognise the confidential stoop of his shoulders when he discusses _la haute politique_," said the dandy diplomatist.

"But what a sacrilege upon a night like this! What a nocturne in blue and silver might be suggested by that moon rising above the desert.

There is a movement in one of Mendelssohn's songs which seems to embody it all-- a sense of vastness, of repetition, the cry of the wind over an interminable expanse.