Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. 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. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent.
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