His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. "No, I shan't," replied Rachel, saucily. Tell me what you think the island is like. 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 took to listening through closed doors. Ann Veronica became violently excited at the sight. The ladies were, as usual, very gaily dressed; and as usual, also, had resorted to art to heighten their attractions— From patches, justly placed, they borrow'd graces, And with vermilion lacquer'd o'er their faces.
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