To the Ends of the Earth by William Golding

observe, in about act three of an inferior drama. She was to be the deserted victim and I the heartless villain.
    “Nonsense, my dear! Do not pretend that these are circumstances —even to our somewhat inelegant posture​—that these are circumstances with which you are wholly unfamiliar!”
    “What shall I do?”
    “Fiddlesticks, woman! The danger is slight as you know very well. Or are you waiting for—”
    I caught myself up. Even to pretend that there might be something about this commerce that was commercial seemed an unnecessary insult. To tell the truth I found there were a number of irritations combined with my natural sense of completion and victory and at the moment I wished nothing so much as that she would vanish like a soap bubble or anything evanescent.
    “Waiting for what, Edmund?”
    “For a reasonable moment to slip into your hutch—cabin I would say—and repair your, your toilette.”
    “Edmund!”
    “We have very little time, Miss Brocklebank!”
    “Yet if— if there should be—unhappy consequences—”
    “Why, my dear, we must cross that bridge when you come to it! Now go, go! I will examine the lobby—yes the coast is clear!”
    I favoured her with a light salute, then leapt back into my cabin. I restored the books to their shelves and did my best to wrench the iron support of the canvas basin back into shape. I lay at last in my bunk and felt, not the Aristotelian sadness but a continuance of my previous irritation. Really the woman is such a fool! The French! It was her sense of theatre that had betrayed her, I could not help thinking, at my expense. But the party was breaking up on deck. I thought that I would emerge later when the light in the lobby was a concealment rather than discovery . I would take the right moment to go to the passenger saloon and drink a glass with any gentleman who might be drinking late there. I did not care to light my candle but waited—and waited in vain! Nobody descended from the upper decks! I stole into the passenger saloon therefore and was disconcerted to find Deverel there already,seated at the table under the great stern window with a glass in one hand and of all things a carnival mask in the other! He was laughing to himself. He saw me at once and called out.
    “Talbot my dear fellow! A glass for Mr Talbot, steward! What a sight it was!”
    Deverel was elevated. His speech was not precise and there was a carelessness about his bearing. He drank to me with grace, however exaggerated. He laughed again.
    “What famous sport!”
    For a moment I thought he might refer to the passage between me and Miss Zenny. But his attitude was not exactly right for that. It was something else, then.
    “Why yes,” said I. “Famous, as you say, sir.”
    He returned nothing for a moment or two. Then—
    “How he does hate a  parson!”
    I was, as we used to say in the nursery, getting warmer.
    “You refer to our gallant captain.”
    “Old Rumble-guts.”
    “I must own, Mr Deverel, that I am no particular friend to the cloth myself; but the captain’s dislike of it seems beyond anything. I have been told that he has forbidden Mr Colley the quarterdeck on account of some trivial oversight.”
    Deverel laughed again.
    “The quarterdeck—the afterdeck, poop and all! So he is confined more or less to the waist.”
    “Such passionate detestation is mysterious. I myself found Colley to be a, a creature of—but I would not punish the man for his nature other than to ignore him.”
    Deverel rolled his empty glass on the table.
    “Bates! Another brandy for Mr Deverel!”
    “You are kindness itself, Talbot. I could tell you—”
    He broke off, laughing.
    “Tell me what, sir?”
    The man, I saw too late, was deep in his cups. Only the habitual elegance of his behaviour and bearing had concealed the fact from me. He murmured.
    “Our captain. Our damned captain.”
    His head fell forward on the saloon table, his glass dropped and broke. I tried to rouse him but