‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. 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. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from. “I forbid it!” she said firmly. “What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. “To be frank with you, Lady Lescelles, when your brother asked me the other day to be his wife I was under a false impression as regards his relations—with some other person. See paragraph 1. . She pointed suddenly at the portrait. Well, you shall know. ” Lucy chuckled at the sacrilegious comment, though it was a very old one.
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