To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. He drew a little breath of relief. 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. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. Her faculties seemed for a moment numbed. Ah!" he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon a small knob in the wall, "there's the spring!" He touched it, and the door flew open. Most unsatisfactory.
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