“Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale. 
Must be told in the moonlight alone
In the grove at the end of the vale”

he caroled contentedly.

Amory, the light of his pipe cheerfully glowing, lay at full length in a steamer chair. The Aloha was bounding briskly forward, a solitary speck on the bosom of darkening purple, and the men sitting in the companionship of silence, which all the world praises and seldom attains, had been engaging in that most entertaining of pastimes, the comparison of present comfort with past toil.  Little Cawthorne’s satisfaction flowered in speech.

“Two weeks ago to-night,” he said, running his hands through his grey curls, “I took the night desk when Ellis was knocked out.  And two weeks ago to-morrow morning we were the only paper to be beaten on the Fownes will story.  Hi—­you.”

“Happy, Cawthorne?” Amory removed his pipe to inquire with idle indulgence.

“Am I happy?” affirmed Little Cawthorne ecstatically in four tones, and went on with his song: 

“The daylight may do for the gay,
The thoughtless, the heartless, the free,
But there’s something about the moon’s ray
That is sweeter to you and to me.”

“Did you make that up?” inquired Amory with polite interest.

“I did if I want to,” responded Little Cawthorne.  “Everything’s true out here—­go on, tell everything you like.  I’ll believe you.”

St. George came out of the dark and leaned on the rail without speaking.  Sometimes he wondered if he were he at all, and he liked the doubt.  He felt pleasantly as if he had been cut loose from all old conditions and were sailing between skies to some unknown planet.  This was not only because of the strange waters rushing underfoot but because of the flowering and singing of something within him that made the world into which he was sailing an alien place, heavenly desirable.  A week ago that day The Aloha had weighed anchor, and these seven days, in fairly fortunate weather, her white nose had been cleaving seas to traverse which had so long been her owner’s dream; and yet her owner, in pleasant apostasy, had turned his back upon the whole matter of what he had been used to dream, and now ungratefully spent his time in trying to count the hours to his journey’s end.

Somewhere out yonder, he reflected, as he leaned on the rail, this southern moonlight was flooding whatever scene she looked on; the lapping of the same sea was in her ears; and his future and hers might be dependent upon those two perplexed tan-coloured greyhounds below.  By which one would have said that matters had been going briskly forward with St. George since the morning that he had breakfasted with Olivia Holland.