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. She went to her own table and sat down. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. " "To be sure! Nothing entertains me so much.
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