In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. Martin’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. While he was thus employed, his nerves underwent a severe shock. The shock and distress were genuine. 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. And you are something of a heroine, too.
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