“I always used to wonder why people raved so about the moon,” said Grant. A little farther on, and they were out of sight of the house, on a lonely stretch of beach and sky. “Joy, when you sang, I felt—I can’t explain how I felt. It’s wonderful, it’s—you.” Somehow they came to a pause on the sands looking out on the moon’s arclight reflection on the water. “I—I once read some of Shelley—in college,” and Grant looked down at her, suddenly scarlet—— “See the mountains kiss high heaven And the wavelets kiss the sea What is all this kissing worth If thou kiss not me?” Almost a gasp in the murmuring ocean air—and then their lips met, brushing shyly, in a frightened thistledown of contact. “Joy—I worship you.” His trembling whisper in her ear. “I love you—I love you so! Joy——” This time they clung together, half frightened at the passion that surged to their lips. And then a long interval without words—until they found themselves sitting on the sand, she with her head on his shoulder, he stroking her hair. “You have the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen. Everything about you is the most wonderful I’ve ever seen. Your eyes, your voice, your lips—” Another interval. “Joy—I never knew what it was to feel like this. You—you’re the only girl I’ve ever kissed.” “I didn’t know a man existed, who could say that,” said Joy with a happy laugh which died away on his next words. “And I didn’t know there were girls like you—until I met you. For I am the first with you—am I not?” “I’ve been kissed before—once.” An intake of breath. Then, before she could continue: “Don’t tell me about it, Joy, dear—” a pause to accustom oneself to the unfamiliar “dear”—“don’t tell me about it—I’d rather not hear any more. I’ll make you forget him—just once isn’t much——” After a month of whiles, they walked slowly up the beach. Their conversation was incoherent, but adequate. “The dance will be almost over—what does it matter to _us_—isn’t it all strange and wonderful—your mother will think we were drowned——” They came into the club house with unmistakably luminous faces. There is something about young love that stands starkly revealed, and they were as patent as if they had been hung with sandwich-man signs. At times life seems to move in a quick succession of scenes until the scenes begin to seem unreal, and one feels apart from the drama of events, watching impersonally while life plays on with oneself. So Joy felt, as she saw Packy at the far corner of the room, and so she watched with impartial interest as he looked at them, first carelessly, then in swift incredulity, then with a face that grew thunderous, as, hands in pockets, he strode across to where they were about to join the dancers. “Hello, Joy,” he said shortly. “Doesn’t take you a long time to change running mates, does it?”