It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. 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. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. ‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped.
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