" "Why not?" rejoined Mrs. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. 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. ” The ants seemed to salute in attention. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away.
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