His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. At any rate she must see me. She could not speak. 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.
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