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He hated horizons. ‘En tout cas, it is not up at all, but down. She remembered possessing it during the Gold Rush. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. He jumped out of his own side once again and ran around the car to open hers in another theatrical display of chivalry. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. Goodbye. She did not wince. But the great point was still unaccomplished. 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. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. .
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