“I confess it. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. We shall be equally matched. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. 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. Make haste!" Ruth hurried off to her own room.
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