I should like to know how it is concerned with Sir John Ferringhall, and how my presence intervenes. 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. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. While there's life there's hope.
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