In the morning, after bathing, Siegmund leaned upon the seawall 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 sea-lions 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 I am quite fond of the
Czar, if pity is akin to love. No; but you can't turn round without
finding some policeman or other at your elbow--look at them, abominable
ironmongery!--ready to put his hand on your shoulder.' The speaker's grey-blue eyes, always laughing with mockery, glanced from
the battleships and lit on the dark blue eyes of Siegmund. The latter
felt his heart lift in a convulsive movement. This stranger ran so
quickly to a perturbing intimacy.