‘Oh, the Frenchie. "Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. 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. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin.
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