"We shall meet again ere long, my son," cried Mrs. 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. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns.
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