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. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out "Mother!" "Who's there?" asked a faint voice from the bed. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. I shall barely be in time for the theatre.
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