“Oh,” she said, “if it’s half-past two I might think of coming down for a moment—­to look at my roses....  Thank you, Mr. Hamil, I can see my way very clearly.  I can usually see my own way clearly—­without the aid of your too readily offered hand....  Did you ever dream of such an exquisitely hot night!  That means rain, doesn’t it?—­with so many fragrances mingling?  The odour of lilies predominates, and I think some jasmine is in the inland wind, but my roses are very sweet if you only bend down to them.  A rose is always worth stooping for.”

She leaned over the yellow blossoms, slender, spirit-white in the starlight, and brushed her fresh young face with the silken petals.

“So sweet,” she said; “lean down and worship my young roses, you unappreciative man!”

For a few minutes she strolled along the paths of the new garden he had built, bending capriciously here and there to savour some perfect blossom.  The night was growing warmer; the sea breeze had died out, and a hot wind blew languidly from the west.

“You know,” she said, looking back at him over her shoulder, “I don’t want to go to bed.”

“Neither do I, and I’m not going.”

“But I’m going....  I wonder why I don’t want to?  Listen!  Once—­after I was a protoplasm and a micro-organism, and a mollusc, and other things, I probably was a predatory animal—­nice and sleek with velvet feet and shining incandescent eyes—­and very, very predatory....  That’s doubtless why I often feel so deliciously awake at night—­with a tameless longing to prowl under the moon....  And I think I’d better go in, now.”

“Nonsense,” he said, “I’m not going to bed yet.”

“Oh!  And what difference might that make to me?  You are horridly conceited; do you know it?”

“Please stay, Calypso.  It’s too hot to sleep.”

“No; star-prowling is contrary to civilized custom.”

“But every soul in the house is sound asleep—­”

“I should hope so!  And you and I have no business to be out here.”

“Do little observances of that sort count with you and me?”

“They don’t,” she said, shaking her head, “but they ought to.  I want to stay.  There is no real reason why I shouldn’t—­except the absurd fear of being caught unawares.  Perhaps, perhaps I might stay for ten more minutes....  Oh, the divine beauty of it all!  How hot it is!—­the splash of the fountains seems to cool things a little—­and those jagged, silvery reflections of the stars, deep, deep in the pool there....  Did you see that fish swirl to the surface?  Hark!  What was that queer sound?”

“Some night bird crying in the marshes.  It will rain to-morrow; the wind is blowing from the hammock; that’s why it’s hot to-night; can you detect the odour of wild sweet-bay?”

“Yes—­at moments.  And I can just hear the surf—­calling, calling ‘Calypso!’ as you called me once....  I must go, now.”