“What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. “Monsieur admires the poster?” As a rule Sir John treated such advances with cold silence. You will find the certificate in my pocket. 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. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent.
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