It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. 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. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. "Well, that beats all I ever heard of!" roared Blueskin. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees.
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