“It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. ” His lips tightened, and he frowned with solemn resolution. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the treacherous sunshine. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. It was too good to be true. Mere hangers on. But he would die if he continued in this course. How long has Miss Charvill been in England?’ ‘Not long, sir.
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