The ridiculous victim of jealousy had for some reason or other to stop his engines just then. The steamer drifted slowly up with the tide. Oblivious of my new surroundings I walked the deck, in anxious, deadened abstraction, a commingling of romantic reverie with a very practical survey of my qualifications. For the time was approaching for me to behold my command and to prove my worth in the ultimate test of my profession. Suddenly I heard myself called by that imbecile. He was beckoning me to come up on his bridge. I didn’t care very much for that, but as it seemed that he had something particular to say I went up the ladder. He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave me a slight turn, pointing with his other arm at the same time. “There! That’s your ship, Captain,” he said. I felt a thump in my breast--only one, as if my heart had then ceased to beat. There were ten or more ships moored along the bank, and the one he meant was partly hidden away from my sight by her next astern. He said: “We’ll drift abreast her in a moment.” What was his tone? Mocking? Threatening? Or only indifferent? I could not tell. I suspected some malice in this unexpected manifestation of interest. He left me, and I leaned over the rail of the bridge looking over the side. I dared not raise my eyes. Yet it had to be done--and, indeed, I could not have helped myself. I believe I trembled. But directly my eyes had rested on my ship all my fear vanished. It went off swiftly, like a bad dream. Only that a dream leaves no shame behind it, and that I felt a momentary shame at my unworthy suspicions. Yes, there she was. Her hull, her rigging filled my eye with a great content. That feeling of life-emptiness which had made me so restless for the last few months lost its bitter plausibility, its evil influence, dissolved in a flow of joyous emotion. At first glance I saw that she was a high-class vessel, a harmonious creature in the lines of her fine body, in the proportioned tallness of her spars. Whatever her age and her history, she had preserved the stamp of her origin. She was one of those craft that, in virtue of their design and complete finish, will never look old. Amongst her companions moored to the bank, and all bigger than herself, she looked like a creature of high breed--an Arab steed in a string of cart-horses. A voice behind me said in a nasty equivocal tone: “I hope you are satisfied with her, Captain.” I did not even turn my head. It was the master of the steamer, and whatever he meant, whatever he thought of her, I knew that, like some rare women, she was one of those creatures whose mere existence is enough to awaken an unselfish delight. One feels that it is good to be in the world in which she has her being.