But below was a whirlwind of ochre, scarlet and gamboge, a fierce yet compact tornado of oscillant hues, shot with green and shuttled with black. Then suddenly, with a roar, the tornado doubled, the roof had fallen. The child that had jumped and clapped his hands, feebly now was beginning to cry.
“It is glorious,” said Fanny.
“I am afraid—” Annandale muttered.
Fanny glanced at him. Yet at once she understood. On the other side of the hotel, across the road, the Casino stood. Her mother, of course, would be safe. But her clothes! At thought of them her hand went to her throat.
“Do you think the Casino will catch?” she gasped.
Annandale nodded.
“Oh,” she continued, “I shan’t have a stitch, not one.”
“Yes, you shall,” Annandale heroically retorted. “I will see to them. But I must run. Find your mother if you can and take her to the Inn.”
The Inn, a hotel half a mile away, was where Annandale lodged. At once he was off. Shortly, by a detour, he got to the other side of the fire. As he swung about he saw that the Casino’s ballroom had caught. But that part of the place was of wood. The other end, where Fanny lodged, was of wood also, but it was also partly of stone. To this part as yet the flames had not reached.
As Annandale ran he told himself that he would have time to get in and get out, but he told himself too that it was a ridiculous job. Fanny’s clothes a stroke of his pen could replace. But now the crowd impeded him. Lines had formed. Buckets were being passed. There were throngs of natives and resorters. Through them he pushed.