Paul's are his work. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. I make no apology for not being with you now. “How old are you?\" He looked at her engagingly. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. “Yes. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “As I have explained many a time, Lucia, the maladies of the blood and flesh do not afflict us. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
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