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. John’s best friend’s parents were to be out of town again, he reported. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner.
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