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. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs.
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