"I think," I said, "I must fit out an expedition, to go and dredge the Java Sea for that manuscript you threw overboard." "No," he replied, settling in his chair. "It wouldn't be worth it." "We don't often find a man who could do it," I said. "That's because they lack balance. The mistake artists and literary people make is, they think that because a thing is priceless, we can't do without it. I think it's a mistake. Someone pays half-a-million dollars for a Turner, say. Well, even if it was burnt up, lost overboard, what of it? It can be done again." "Do you think so?" I asked. I was glad Mac did not hear this. "Certainly!" replied Mr. Carville. "Everything's been done, which is a sound argument for supposing it can be done again. There's plenty of men doing much better than they did in olden times. I can't see much sense in the theory that because a picture is old it's a masterpiece, and because it's new it's junk. We ought to take longer views. How do _we_ know what the youngsters are going to do?" "That indeed is on the knees of the gods," I said as I put the _Heine_ back on the shelf. I looked at my watch. "I must be off to Pleasant Plains," I said. "If you are not going out at once, I should like to return in the afternoon; but I must run now." "I expect we'll be bunkered and out by tea-time," he said, rising. "Still, some other time.... We're not away very long, month or so...." He followed me to the gangway and I bade him farewell and _bon-voyage_. He had donned a double-breasted coat with brass buttons and a cap with a badge and gold cord on it. The effect on my mind was somewhat disquieting. He seemed to have vanished behind an official mask, a mask whose sympathy with and knowledge of me was inexpressibly remote. I looked back as I crossed over towards the ferry, and saw him in deep conversation with the Chief Officer.