The wind, freshening and driving very respectable if miniature rollers against the beach, came in heavy gusts, alternating with periods of steady, strong blowing. At times the shining lances of the rain seemed to drive almost horizontally. Whitaker shivered a little, not unpleasantly, and went indoors.
He poked his head into the kitchen. In that immaculate place, from which every hint of breakfast had disappeared as if by magic, Sum Fat was religiously cleaning his teeth—for the third time that morning, to Whitaker's certain knowledge.
When he had finished, Whitaker put a question:
"Sum Fat, which way does the wind blow—do you know?"
Sum Fat flashed him a dazzling smile.
"East'ly," he said in a cheerful, clucking voice. "I think very fine damn three-day blow."
"At least," said Whitaker, "you're a high-spirited prophet of evil. I thank you."
He selected a book from several shelves stocked with a discriminating taste, and settled himself before the fire.
The day wore out before his patience did, and with every indication of fulfilling the prognosis of Sum Fat; by nightfall the wind had developed into an enthusiastic gale, driving before it sheeted rain and great ragged wastes of mist. Whitaker absolutely enjoyed the sensation of renewed intimacy with the weather, from which his life in New York had of late divorced him so completely. He read, dozed, did full justice to the admirable cuisine of Sum Fat, and between whiles considered the state of his soul, the cycle of the suns, his personal marital entanglement, and the further preservation, intact, of his bruised mortal body.
The ceaseless pattering on the shingled roof reminded him very strongly of that dark hour, long gone, when he had made up his mind to wed a strange woman. He marvelled at that madness with an inexhaustible wonder and with an equally vast, desolate, poignant regret.