He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. 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. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. ‘We were wondering about that. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together.
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