He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. 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. He got off on it. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. And I heard ‘Alcide’ sing, and that little dance she did. “There is no doubt whatever about that. ” “Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. Dollis Hill revisited 324 XII. He shook his head.
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