“You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. ” “Men,” said Miss Miniver, “NEVER have a reason. It had been a trying day. ’ ‘Distract me? She nigh on gave me an apoplexy. 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. That’s one thing clear. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “No, I am alone,” she answered. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway.
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