She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Sanguine they were not. "But she is a dear," said Angelina, timidly. I should say that you owed me considerable. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding.
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