The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. 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. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. I don’t know what has come over me. The kiss was powerfully moving. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. ’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily.
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