The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. Wood hadn't struck me. " "I should like a little of that plum-tart," said Mrs. Give me that picture, or I'll make you!" "Hear me," said Thames, calmly; "you well know you're no match for me. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. But it is not entirely without hope, for perhaps they may find some succour with Charvill.
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