Kneebone said, just now. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. ’ ‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. But from the rest—you saved me. 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 about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied.
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