" "Not in the least," replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; "there's my staff. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call. 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. 132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. Because of the Dance.
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