From the white beach the palms ran in serried rows quarter of a mile inland, then began a jungle of bamboo, gum-tree, sandalwood, plantain, huge fern, and choking grasses. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. Nothing seemed to be amiss. She did not forge a note. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. It was after all a momentary affair. “Why don’t they wait?” he added.
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