‘My wife would say she is English a little. At other times, it would seem that the sea itself had gone away. 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. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. After him! A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. For a few minutes all was silent. It is a very good English name, no? But who is she?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, I should say,’ said Mrs Ibstock, correcting herself.
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