There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. 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. " "So do I," replied Ruth. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech.
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