The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. Jonathan, however, paid no sort of attention to this demonstration of hatred. 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. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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