“Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. 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. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. Melusine, intent upon preventing Gosse from securing the fallen weapon, paid no attention. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her.
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