They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. Wood a very free-and-easy sort of stare, winked at Mr. Cars rushed by on the street, swerving into the middle of the two lane road to avoid the knee-deep puddles forming around sewer grates. Rhea laughed and lunged for the broadsword that Sebastian had carelessly left lying on the ground. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. John, I have something to say to you. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. In an instant, she turned on him. 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.
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