THE LADY FROM MAURITIUS
The carriage called for him promptly, in such a drenching equatorial downpour as made him keep the shutters closed. Between the slats he could catch glimpses only of pink roads flooded, pools lashed with upward-leaping drops, and now and then the stout sallow calves of a rickshaw coolie splashing past on the jog trot. He was nearing the outskirts of the city, in the general direction, as he guessed, of the impounding reservoir, when the carriage swerved between gate-posts, followed the long curve of a drive thick-set with dripping shrubbery, and stopped beneath the white arches of a verandah. Substantial but damp-stained, Flamboyer Villa—to judge from a hurried glance—stood in a dense little wilderness of tropical greenery. A white-bearded durwan, Biblical in robes and turban, salaamed gravely at the foot of the stairs.
Owen mounted gaily, hoping to see Laura at
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