Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. 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. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. Wild wishes to keep a man out of the way, he'll speedily find the means to do so. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. My destiny, I am afraid, is going to lead me into the ruts.
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