All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her.
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