The bibliographer said: 

“I understand Mr. van Koppen is quite an authority on girls.  As to Denis, I saw him last—­when was it?  Oh, not so very long ago.  The day all those funny things happened; those portents.  We walked up and down together on this very terrace.  Perhaps he has left the island, like that wretched mineralogist who promised me—­never mind!  He seemed all right then.  A little depressed, perhaps.  Yes; a little depressed, no I come to think of it.  But the Count need not be anxious.  This island is a great place for scares and rumours.”

Mr. Heard was not satisfied.

“Do you believe the influence of Nepenthe can make Northern people irresponsible for their actions?  Keith does.  Or how about the sirocco?  Can it upset their nerves to such an extent?”

“Not my nerves.  I have heard of people making fools of themselves and then blaming the Creator.  Often!  And of course, if one begins to brood over accidentals like the weather, one is sure to become a lunatic sooner or later.  Weather was not made for that purpose.  If you come to think of it, how few days there are when a man can honestly say that the weather is quite to his liking!  It is nearly always too hot or too cold or too wet or too dry or too windy.  I don’t trouble myself about sirocco.  Why should Denis?  He is not nearly as much of a fool as many people look.  And I would not listen to Keith.  He moves among hyperbolas.”

Mr. Heard felt slightly relieved.  What a sensible fellow this was; so matter-of-fact and sure of his ground.  The ideal scholar.  Sirocco did not exist for him.  He stood aloof from human passions and infirmities.

It was plain that the bishop had never heard that story about the Ballon CAPTIF.

“For my part,” he said, “I am beginning to object to this south wind.  I never felt it worse than to-day.  Phew!  Stifling!  One can hardly breathe.  My shirt is sticking to my back.  Suppose we sit down somewhere?”

They found a bench, in view of the sea and the volcano.  The population moved sedately up and down before their eyes.

“Is it always like this?” enquired Mr. Heard.

“Spring is a little warmer than usual.  Or perhaps one should say that summer has begun earlier.  The sirocco is the same, year after year, although there is a kind of conspiracy among the foreign residents to say that it happens to be worse than usual that particular season.  It never varies.”

“What does your Perrelli say on the subject?”

Mr. Eames glanced at him distrustfully.

“You are trying to chaff me,” he said.  “Serves me right for talking so much this morning.  I am afraid I bored you dreadfully.”

The bishop wanted to know.

“Then I may tell you that Monsignor Perrelli does not so much as mention the South wind.  He names all the others and has come capital observations on the anchorages of the island as adapted to different winds and seasons.  He has also extracted from old chronicles the records of the great storms of 1136, 1342, 1373, 1460, and so on; but never discloses the fact that they all blew from the south.  He says the air is pleasant, tempered by gentle breezes from the sea.  The word sirocco does not occur in his pages save once, when he laments its prevalence on the mainland.”