’ ‘To you,’ she said angrily. 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. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. He did not speak for a moment. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. His voice now had lost its ironies. Montague Hill, and I do not think that under those circumstances I should be long about it.
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