A hand fell gently upon his arm: Venetia's. He had not been aware of her approach, yet he was not startled. He turned his head slowly, smiling. She said softly: "Don't say anything--wait till it rises." They waited in silence. Her hand lingered upon his arm; and that last, he knew, was trembling. The nearness of her person, the intimacy of her touch, weighed heavily upon his senses. An edge of golden light appeared where the skies came down to the sea; hesitated; increased. That wan and spectral light, waxing, lent emphasis to the rare and delicious wonder of her loveliness, to the impregnable mystery of her womanhood. He regarded her with something near awe, with keen perception of his unworthiness: as a spirit from Heaven had stooped to commune with him. She lived; breathed; the hand upon his arm was warm and strong.... Incredible! The gibbous disk swung clear of the horizon and like some strange misshapen acrobat climbed a low-lying lattice-work of clouds. The girl turned away to a huge willow basket-chair. Matthias found its fellow and drew near to her. He struggled to speak; he fancied that she waited for him to speak; but his mind refused to frame, his tongue to utter, aught but the stalest of banalities. "No dew tonight," he hazarded at length, shame-faced. After an instant of silence she laughed clearly and gently. "O romantic man!" she said. "Now that you have, shattered the spell--if you please, a cigarette." He supplied this need; held a match; delayed holding it when it had served its purpose, enraptured with the refulgent wonder of that cameo of sweet flesh and blood set against the melting shadows, silver and purple and blue. With a second low, light laugh, she bent forward and daintily extinguished the flame with a single puff. "I don't wish to be stared at...." "Pardon," he said mechanically, startled. "But ... why?" "Perhaps I'm afraid you may see too much...." "Impossible!" he declared with conviction. "Odd as it may sound," she said in a mocking voice, "I have my secrets." Her back was to the moon, her face a pallid oval framed in ebony, illegible; but the moonlight was full upon his face, and she who would might read. His disadvantage was obvious. It wasn't fair.... Lounging, she crossed her knees, puffed thrice and cast the cigarette into the gulf. Abruptly she sat forward, studying him intently. He was disturbed with a singular uneasiness. "Jack," said Venetia very quietly, "is it true that you love me?" "Good lord!" he cried, sitting up. "Is it true?" He blinked. His head was whirling. He said nothing; sank back; quite automatically puffed with such fury that in a trice he had reduced the cigarette to an inch of glowing coal; scorched his fingers and threw it from him. Then he gasped stupidly: "Venetia!" "Is it true?"