He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. The theme was a masquerade. ” But now she doubted again of the quality of the armistice they had just made. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. 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.
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