Carlota Egan rose. "I must get back to the Reef and Palm. You've no idea all I have to do—"
John Quincy stood beside her. "If I can help, you know—"
"I know," she smiled. "I'm thinking of making you assistant manager. They'd be so proud of you—in Boston."
She moved off toward the water for her homeward swim, and John Quincy dropped down beside Chan. The Chinaman's little amber eyes followed the girl. "Endeavoring to make English language my slave," he said, "I pursue poetry. Who were the great poet who said—'She walks in beauty like the night?'"
"Why, that was—er—who was it?" remarked John Quincy helpfully.
"Name is slippery," went on Chan. "But no matter. Lines pop into brain whenever I see this Miss Egan. Beauty like the night, Hawaiian night maybe, lovely as purest jade. Most especially on this beach. Spot of heart-breaking charm, this beach."
"Surely is," agreed John Quincy, amused at Chan's obviously sentimental mood.
"Here on gleaming sand I first regard my future wife," continued Chan. "Slender as the bamboo is slender, beautiful as blossom of the plum—"
"Your wife," repeated John Quincy. The idea was a new one.
"Yes, indeed." Chan rose. "Recalls I must hasten home where she attends the children who are now, by actual count, nine in number." He looked down at John Quincy thoughtfully. "Are you well-fitted with the armor of preparation?" he said. "Consider. Some night the moon has splendor in this neighborhood, the cocoa-palms bow lowly and turn away their heads so they do not see. And the white man kisses without intending to do so."