She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. More importantly, she had her wits. He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. 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 wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. “No!” “Don’t try and stop me. "Attend to me, Mrs.
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