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” “In Paris, I think,” Ennison answered. 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. " "It was her own fault," observed Blueskin, moodily. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. Not entirely. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing.
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