The Elsinore , fresh-loaded with coal, lay very deep in the water when we came alongside.  I knew too little about ships to be capable of admiring her lines, and, besides, I was in no mood for admiration.  I was still debating with myself whether or not to chuck the whole thing and return on the tug.  From all of which it must not be taken that I am a vacillating type of man.  On the contrary.

The trouble was that at no time, from the first thought of it, had I been keen for the voyage.  Practically the reason I was taking it was because there was nothing else I was keen on.  For some time now life had lost its savour.  I was not jaded, nor was I exactly bored.  But the zest had gone out of things.  I had lost taste for my fellow-men and all their foolish, little, serious endeavours.  For a far longer period I had been dissatisfied with women.  I had endured them, but I had been too analytic of the faults of their primitiveness, of their almost ferocious devotion to the destiny of sex, to be enchanted with them.  And I had come to be oppressed by what seemed to me the futility of art—a pompous legerdemain, a consummate charlatanry that deceived not only its devotees but its practitioners.

In short, I was embarking on the Elsinore because it was easier to than not; yet everything else was as equally and perilously easy.  That was the curse of the condition into which I had fallen.  That was why, as I stepped upon the deck of the Elsinore , I was half of a mind to tell them to keep my luggage where it was and bid Captain West and his daughter good-day.

I almost think what decided me was the welcoming, hospitable smile Miss West gave me as she started directly across the deck for the cabin, and the knowledge that it must be quite warm in the cabin.