He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. It was a mad half-hour. Altogether different. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. 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. "Relating to the father of the boy—Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan. Besides, I would tear out my tongue rather than let it speak her mother's infamy. You were content, and I came to thrive on your happiness. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage.
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