The water was roughish, a cold, clear indigo breaking into whitecaps.

Bartley walked for two hours, and then stretched himself in the sun until lunch-time.
In the afternoon he wrote a long letter to Winifred.

Later, as he walked the deck through a splendid golden sunset, his spirits rose continually.
It was agreeable to come to himself again after several days of numbness and torpor.

He stayed out until the last tinge of violet had faded from the water.

There was literally a taste of life on his lips as he sat down to dinner and ordered a bottle of champagne.