Viewed from the clammy deck on this bright morning, the island of nepenthe resembled a cloud. It was a silvery speck upon the limitless expanse of blue sea and sky. A south wind breathed over the Mediterranean waters, drawing up their moisture which lay couched in thick mists about its flanks and uplands. The comely outlines were barely suggested through a veil of fog. An air of irreality hung about the place. Could this be an island? A veritable island of rocks and vineyards and house – this pallid apparition? It looked like some snowy sea – bird resting upon the waves; a sea – bird or a cloud; one of those lonely clouds that stray from their fellows and drift about in wayward fashion at the bidding of every breeze.