She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. She stared at his pleading face. Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. She stuffed her violin in its case and rushed into the hallway towards John, who stood outside of 118 with his arms crossed. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once.
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