“And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. "If I were so, I should not be here," returned Trenchard. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. 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. And if I don’t, I go mad.
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