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 sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. Little woman, you have been brave enough before. They thought that he was dead at first, and they took him to the hospital. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica.
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