In the last act of _The Merchant of Venice_ Shakespeare has said all that there is to say about moonlight and its effect upon young people, and if Harry Vibart was less expressive than young Lorenzo, Jasmine Grant was at least as susceptible as pretty Jessica. She had a moment's sadness in the recollection of her father's death after such a night in the Bay of Salerno; but it was no more than a transient gloom, like a thin cloud that scarcely dims the face of the moon in its swift voyage past. Indeed, the sorrowful memory actually added something to her joy of the present; for fleeting though the emotion was, it endured long enough to stir the depths of her heart and to make her more grateful to her companion for the beauty of this night. The skipper of the _Mermaid_ had spoken the truth: the light breeze he had promised did arrive, and presently the grunt of oars gave place to the lisp and murmur of water and to airy melodies aloft. "Magnificent, eh what?" Vibart asked. "Glorious," Jasmine agreed. Pointing to a small craft half a mile away to starboard, he quoted two lines of verse: _A silver sail on a silver sea_ _Under a silver moon._ "That really exactly expresses it, don't you think?" "Perfectly," she agreed. "Funny that those lines should come so pat. I don't usually spout poetry, you know. It really is awfully good, isn't it?-- _A_ sil_ver sail on a_ sil_ver sea_ _Under a_ sil_ver moon!_" He marked the beat more emphatically at the second time of quoting. "It's really awfully musical. You know, I admire a chap who can write poetry like that. Some people rather despise poets, but if you come to think what a lot of pleasure they give.... _A_ silver _sail on a_ silver _sea_ _Under a silver_ moon!" "Who wrote it?" asked Jasmine idly. "Oh, great Scott, don't ask me. It's extraordinary enough that I should remember the lines. I must have learnt them at my dame's school. Years ago. Quite fifteen years ago. Terrific, isn't it? I'm twenty-four, you know. That's the worst of being an heir. I wanted to go out and try my hand at coffee in British East, but my old great-uncle kicked up a fuss. He's a funny old boy. Likes to have me around, and then grumbles all the time because I'm not doing anything. Says my conversation would cure a defaulting solicitor of insomnia. I bucked him up rather, though, by talking about Italy. Do you know, I think he'd rather like you. A _silver_ sail on a _silver_ sea Under _a silver moon_. "Dash it, I can't get those lines out of my head. It's worse than a tune. Yes, I think he'd rather like you, Miss Grant. Miss Grant! That sounds absurd on a night like this. Now, I think Jasmine's a charming name. Jasmine! It seems to fit in so well with ... _a silver sail_ ... look, here, do you mind stopping me if I begin again? Jasmine! Would you jump overboard if I called you Jasmine?" "I'd rather you called me Jasmine."