Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “He will probably make a statement to-night. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine.
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