It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. 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’s obsessed with him, you know, totally obsessed. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened.
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