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. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. "You know not what you do. "All's over," muttered Jonathan. " "Quite natural! Never forgive an injury!—I never do!—ha! ha!" "Really, Mr. ” “Lydia Languish, for example.
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