Suddenly he stopped short. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. . “Annabel,” she said brusquely. 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. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to.
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