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.
"I don't know," she answered vaguely.
"But there's nothing more to see in Canton." "Perhaps I'm too tired to plan for to-morrow.

Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself.

She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly.
Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness.

One of the coolies held the paper lantern.

Near by stood Ah Cum and the young unknown, the former protesting gently, the latter insistent upon his demands.
"I repeat," said Ah Cum, "that the venture is not propitious.
Canton is all China at night.