It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. Mike seemed visibly happier at her remark. . Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. 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. "A doctor? What he needs is a good jolt of aromatic spirits of ammonia. Anna and her escort exchanged glances. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching.
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