She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. 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. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. Now, Sir. ’ ‘A life of ease?’ repeated Melusine. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up.
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