‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. He blurted, “I was just telling Lucy that I have finished an important work. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile.
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