She chuckled. It came again. "Certainly not," replied Gay. He walked her home. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. 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. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. The Red Room. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again.
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