XIII
In the morning, after bathing, Siegmund leaned upon the sea wall in a kind of reverie. It was late, towards nine o’clock, yet he lounged, dreamily looking out on the turquoise blue water, and the white haze of morning, and the small, fair shadows of ships slowly realizing before him. In the bay were two battleships, uncouth monsters, lying as naïve and curious as sealions strayed afar.
Siegmund was gazing oversea in a half-stupid way, when he heard a voice beside him say:
“Where have they come from; do you know, sir?”
He turned, saw a fair, slender man of some thirty-five years standing beside him and smiling faintly at the battleships.
“The men of war? There are a good many at Spithead,” said Siegmund.
The other glanced negligently into his face.
“They look rather incongruous, don’t you think? We left the sea empty and shining, and when we come again, behold, these objects keeping their eye on us!”
Siegmund laughed.
“You are not an Anarchist, I hope?” he said jestingly.
“A Nihilist, perhaps,” laughed the other. “But
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