The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. ” “Do you mean,” Courtlaw asked, “that from now to the end of the six months you do not wish to see us—any of us?” Her eyes were a little dim again. 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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