In this state of mind he drooped idly over the rail as the yacht drew out of the bay, the evening of the second day. The glories of the southern sunset lingered and vanished, a-begging, without his senses being roused by them; and long after the sea, chameleon-like, changed from rose to lavender, from lavender to gray, the mountains yet jealously clung to their vivid aureolas of phantom gold. Fitzgerald saw nothing but writing on the water.
"Well, my boy," said Cathewe, lounging affectionately against
Fitzgerald, "here we are, rolled over again."
"What?"
Cathewe described a circle with his finger lazily.
"Oh!" said Fitzgerald, listless. "Another day more or less, crowded into the past, doesn't matter."
"Maybe. If we could only have the full days and deposit the others and draw as we need them; but we can't do it. And yet each day means something; there ought always to be a little of it worth remembering."
"Old parson!" cried Fitzgerald, with a jab of his elbow.
"All bally rot, eh? I wish I could look at it that way. Yet, when a man mopes as you are doing, when this sunset. . ."
"New one every day."
"What's the difficulty, Jack?"