He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. 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. I’ve—dreads. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. ’ ‘Yes, Hilary, do stop hustling the girl,’ put in Miss Froxfield, much to Melusine’s relief and approval. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. The affair was thick with sinister suggestions.
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