Also his mind was played upon by two distinct series of emotions--Stackhouse representing one set; Fleury and the Faraway Woman signifying the other. He swung from power to power. Then his concern and fascination for Stackhouse changed from loathing and the visible tragedy, to a queer passage of conjecture regarding the worldwide processes which had nourished that huge body to its fall. In fact, Bellair’s favourite restaurants returned to mind like a pageant; the little inns on the Sound that he used to go summer Saturday afternoons; the one place in Staten where there were corn-cakes and a view of the shipping; the myriad eating and drinking places of New York; and from them all, one shop of chop and chicken-broils where the miracles were done on wood-embers, so that even the smoke that filled the place was seasoned nutriment. “They certainly knew how to buy,” he muttered aloud. It was a kind of moan, and he added quickly: “I beg your pardon.” Fleury and the woman regarded him with silent kindness. “I was just thinking of a man I knew--a buyer of canned goods,” he explained hastily. “The bargains in canned-goods he had a way of pulling off! There wasn’t a man in New York who could bring in lines of stuff at the figure he copped--a little runt of a man named Blath, who knew his business----” Fleury leaned back as if reaching for support, his quiet smile not a little tender. His two browned hands came forward to Bellair’s knees, and he said with a devoted smile: “I’ll not forget that in a hurry.... Blath, you say his name was?” Bellair knew well that he had not kept his mental pictures from Fleury’s mind. His entire consciousness had been in steam and woodsmoke having to do with broiling meat. The three were worn thin, worn to fine receptivity, and caught one-another’s thought without effort of many words.... Though he did not turn, a shock of pity came to him now for the master. He had meant to save the opening of the whiskey for the next dawn, vaguely thinking that if they should find the sea empty once more, there would be that false strength to fall back upon. Stackhouse could not live more than a day or two longer. He was torn by devils, his only surcease being the snap of consciousness from time to time. The whiskey had been upon Bellair’s mind like a curse. He wanted its force for himself, but never really meant to use it, had not even given the temptation leeway. His lot was cast with the forward forces; they would not have touched the contents of his bottle. This did not change the desire, however. 4