"Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other. Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. 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. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland.
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