102 When he took her out, he was proud of her. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. \" Diane chirped once again, ever-musical. But probably not the truth. Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. ” He said, sucking down some Pepsi. They will claim particular attention hereafter.
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