No man knew whence she had come nor why. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. Wood. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. 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. And through all these defences and into Old Palace Yard, into the very vitals of the defenders’ position, lumbered the unsuspected vans. ‘I assure you it was mutual. ‘But do you not see that he will come again? I think it is better if you, both of you, go and leave me here to find—’ She broke off, looking away.
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