he could not see what the body was he had run into. "Sorry." "Sorry."
It was Rachel who apologised. They both laughed, too much blown about to
speak. She drove open the door of her room and stepped into its calm. In
order to speak to her, it was necessary that Richard should follow. They
stood in a whirlpool of wind; papers began flying round in circles, the
door crashed to, and they tumbled, laughing, into chairs. Richard sat
upon Bach.

"My word! What a tempest!" he exclaimed.

"Fine, isn't it?" said Rachel. Certainly the struggle and wind had given
her a decision she lacked; red was in her cheeks, and her hair was down.

"Oh, what fun!" he cried. "What am I sitting on? Is this your room? How
jolly!" "There--sit there," she commanded. Cowper slid once more.

"How jolly to meet again," said Richard. "It seems an age. _Cowper's
Letters_? . . . Bach? . . . _Wuthering Heights_? . . . Is this where
you meditate on the world, and then come out and pose poor politicians
with questions? In the intervals of sea-sickness I've thought a lot of
our talk. I assure you, you made me think."

"I made you think! But why?"

"What solitary icebergs we are, Miss Vinrace! How little we can
communicate! There are lots of things I should like to tell you
about--to hear your opinion of. Have you ever read Burke?"

"Burke?" she repeated. "Who was Burke?"