They returned to the castle, neither of them speaking. The aunt laughed. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. 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 sacrifice. I didn’t believe him and I said so. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. About her, as she had gone day by day to and from the Tredgold College, she had seen and not seen many an incidental aspect of those sides of life about which girls are expected to know nothing, aspects that were extraordinarily relevant to her own position and outlook on the world, and yet by convention ineffably remote. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. “If you speak—farewell. I got to have you under guard in the gatehouse, I can see that.
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