This is the weather Scobie loves. Lying in bed he touches his telescope lovingly, turning a wistful eye on the blank wall of rotting mud-bricks which shuts off his view of the sea. Scobie is getting on for seventy and still afraid to die; his one fear is that he will awake one morning and find himself dead- Lieutenant-Commander Scobie, O. B. E. Consequently it gives him a severe shock every morning when the water-carriers shriek under his window before dawn, waking him up. For a moment, he says, he dares not open his eyes. Keeping them fast shut for fear they might open on the heavenly host he gropes along the cake-stand beside his bed and grabs his pipe. It is always loaded from the night before and an open matchbox stands beside it. The first whiff of tobacco restores both his composure and his eyesight. He breathes deeply, grateful for reassurance. He smiles. He gloats. Then, drawing the heavy sheepskin which serves him as a bed-cover up to his ears, he sings a little triumpha
A. delighted with his success in surviving the night
B. delightful because of his achievement in living
C. satisfied with his victory over life
D. satisfying with his victory over death
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