The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. They crossed the Park to the westward, and then turned back and walked round the circle about the Royal Botanical Gardens and then southwardly toward Waterloo. ‘Don’t be so absurd. There’s hardly a night she doesn’t sneak out of the house. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan.
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