“All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. She felt like a dried-up old woman. . 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. Or run me through. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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