THE CRATER

“Her story,” said Ross, aiming his cigar-end at a phosphorescent patch of ocean, “was discreditable enough to be true.” He drew an immense red handkerchief from the pocket of his pyjamas, and wiped his extensive forehead, muttering, “As far as a woman ever tells the truth about herself.”I sat on in silence waiting for the epigrams to end and the narrative to begin.It was a stifling night off the East Coast of Africa. A wind that blew from the Equator and followed a crowded ship made sleep impossible. Nightly it drove Ross and myself on deck to spend the intolerable hours in talk.