It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. There will often be six growths in a single palm. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. ‘Knew you had the lad with you, and thought you were merely delayed. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies.
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