It was true. McArliss apparently fell into the cigarettes first, or perhaps he had fallen deeper. Bellair did not join them in the cabin, but heard their voices. The next day McArliss hunted him up, an inconceivable action. This was not like timid Spring, but sudden redolent summer after the austerities. The man was on fire, but perfectly in hand. All that he had thought and kept to himself for months appeared to come forth now--books and men, the great oceans of spirit and matter, and the mysteries of life and release. It seemed as if his body and brain had suddenly become transparent. The Captain was happy and kind, without oath or scandal, full of colour and romance; returning with excellent measure all the good thoughts that Bellair had given to him, and showing forth for one rare forenoon the memorable fabric of a man. There was no repetition to his stages. In the afternoon he passed Bellair brusquely, and drank the night away with Stackhouse. The next day both face and figure had a new burden; the real man was now imprisoned more effectively than even his sobriety could accomplish.... Then the descent day by day--the narrow, woman’s waist and the broad, lean shoulders becoming a hunched unit, face averted, hands thick. Bellair always felt that Stackhouse was in a way responsible--for the old Master had known what would come and lured it on. He had foretold each stage--even to the last of McArliss drinking alone. On two nights Fleury was with him while he met his devils. He had outraged Bellair at every offer and entrance. Even Stackhouse was surprised that the preacher was permitted to attend. His poor vitality at length began to crawl back into his body with terrible pain and shattered sanity--that old familiar battle, the last of many storms. And now the _Jade_ was sailing up into the summer of the southern ocean. Midwinter in New York and here a strange, spacious sort of June, not without loneliness and wonderment to Bellair for the steady brightness and exceeding length of day.