gue world of sweeping mist and driving rain; pine trees
Japanesque against the mist, as if etched in bronze-green on frosted
silver; a breadth of rough, hummocky ground sloping down to the water's
edge, with a private landing-stage and, farther out, a courtesying
cat-boat barely discernible.

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.

He considered faithfully what he had gained by reasserting his identity,
and found it an empty thing. He had been happier when a Wilful Missing,
unmissed, unmourned. It seemed as if it might be best to go away again,
to eliminate Hugh Whitaker from the coil his reappearance h