She had been careless. 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. So I ran away, blindly, knowing nothing of the world outside. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. Blueskin goes with me. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Some day, when the rewards of literature permit the arduous research required, the Campaign of the Women will find its Carlyle, and the particulars of that marvellous series of exploits by which Miss Brett and her colleagues nagged the whole Western world into the discussion of women’s position become the material for the most delightful and amazing descriptions. I have discovered something of her background.
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