” “Your knowledge of our ways,” he murmured “is profound. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. I suppose I ought to have been a man. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table.
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