He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. 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. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the treacherous sunshine. “Never. And we are not traders looking at equivalents. ” “Well!” “He greeted me effusively. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. “I was trying to design a personal hovercraft. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. Sorry to be so nosy.
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