She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. 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. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. But Manning seemed more and more clearly indicated as a refuge, as security. “Mr. It was an impulse.
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