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. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. " "Knock him on the head," thundered Sir Cecil, "or we shall have the watch upon us. He only stays here for you, hoping in vain. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about.
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