From the far corner of the pier Quincy could sit and hold the ocean in his soul. If he turned, the city sprawled out before him, defiling the sun that shone on it. Innumerable little creatures crawled upon the gleaming board-walk, a black line spotted with the blare of women’s colors. Also, on the beach they pranced like sand-fleas, or rode horses that caught the sun’s spark on their flanks along the combers. But to turn was not necessary. He sat there, his mother chattering beside him, and essayed not to listen. For hours he would sit and watch the symphony of light within the waves, for hours play at the game of trying to tell the water’s colors. If only his mother had had less to ask him! How he longed for a more humble mother, one to respect his silence, to be mute before his ecstasy. How he would have cherished such a one! But she who was there meant just as well, albeit her deed was different. He must endeavor to bear this in mind. Sarah’s chief theme was scolding him because he had allowed himself to sicken; and, granting that, because he had not at once called on her. There were many variations--rather similar--to this. But at times, the plethora of words would cease, and then, despite the ugly charm she could cast on him when he silenced her, with her injured mien, the sea came up and spoke to him. “How wondrous this beach would be,” he cried--a flash of his old self, “if only there were no hotels, no piers, no board-walk!” “Nonsense!” Sarah, like all good Americans, felt personally hurt at the suggestion that her race had not improved on Nature’s America. “Where could you sleep?--or have your chair rolled?” There were too many people about; there was too much of this fond mother, who knew so well about Quincy’s body, so little of Quincy’s soul. At least, on these, Quincy blamed the failure of his ironic journey. The passionate sea had beckoned so beautifully to him--to him that once might have known its accent. He stood alone on the longest pier; his mother left at the hotel. His eyes went out to the horizon and his ears met the plash of the cool, deep waves against the slimed concrete posts. It seemed to him that he must jump--and die. It was a real impulse--one to be squarely met.