The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her.
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