“Impossible to say,” he answered. . "Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate gaze upon the speaker,—"who's that?" "Your mother," replied Mrs. 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. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. ‘You dare to come to me? What do you wish of me? Why have you come? I do not want you!’ She swept round on Gerald abruptly and he braced for the onslaught.
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