"You have both," replied Wood, fervently. 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. ’ She simpered, and withdrew one hand so that she might smack his fingers playfully. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The child has sprung into a youth; the youth has become a man; the man has already begun to feel the advances of age. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. "Comfort yourself, my charmer," said Mr.
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