" "Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or——" "To the proof," interrupted the stranger, calmly. 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 reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. “I ought to have done anything! “What’s a man for? “Friendship!” He doubled up his fist, and seemed to contemplate thrusting it through the window. "A miserly old woman.
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