CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. I won't have a beachcomber on the island. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. She felt she must suffocate if these men did not put her down, and for a time they would not put her down. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. Anyone would be intrigued.
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