STEPHEN BLURTS OUT A SECRETThe Rex had come to rest in the harbour of Villefranche. Between the towering heights, chocolate brown thatched with the dark foliage of pine or the sicklier verdure of olive, the great liner lay far off shore, a motionless white mass on a deep green sea, foam-flecked, under a sky of brilliant cobalt, washed clean by a night of November rain. A tender, a flock of motor launches, some rowing boats, snuggled against her soaring flanks, bobbing in the swell, with the gulls swooping and hovering and crying harshly all about: from the smokestacks high above, supremely disdainful of the rattle of a winch and the seabirds' calls, little plumes of vapour mounted steadily into the glittering air, as though the giant were taking a breather after the long run from New York.
