Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. As Spurlock called her name, she paused and turned. ‘Only you made me lose my temper, and—’ ‘I made you do so? Pah!’ Gerald at last succeeded in ripping the handkerchief from her grasp, and swiftly held it to her neck, oblivious to her now bloodied fingers clawing at his hand. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. "We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising.
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