He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. He was daring enough to have seized and carried him off before the whole congregation, but he preferred waiting. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. 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. It is always on his person.
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