Entranced, he stared at the name. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. "I should never have been what I am, but for you. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you. 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.
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