It’s all nonsense. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch. 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. Then she shrugged. " "Perhaps not," replied Jack, to whom an idea had suddenly occurred.
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