“Are you afraid of being talked about, then?”
“I? Oh! dear no. What can it matter to me now?”
“And supposing I were to tell you that what ‘people’ say, with or without foundation, is as much a matter of indifference to me as the blowing of next summer’s breezes, would you still consider it necessary to leave Madeira?”
“I don’t know.”
He again rose and leant over the verandah rail.
“It is going to be a wild night,” he said, presently.
“Yes; the wind will spoil all the magnolias. Pick me that bud; it is too good to be wasted.”
He obeyed, and, just as he stepped back on to the verandah, a fierce rush of wind came up from the sea, and went howling away behind them.
“I love a storm,” she murmured, as he brought the flower to her. “It makes me feel so strong,” and she stretched out her perfect arms as though to catch the wind.
“What am I to do with this magnolia?”