The moonlight beat down upon them in floods of sentient palpitating glory. Little breathy waves sought the shore and whispered to it. The pines on the breast of the bank stirred softly and tenderly.
“Lord, what a night,” Jimmie said, and began burying her little white hand in the beach sand. His breath was not coming quite evenly. “Now tell me about your job,” he said.
“I don’t think I want to talk about my job tonight.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know.” There was no question about her voice sounding as usual this time. 136
Jimmie brushed the sand slowly away from the buried hand and covered it with his own. He drew nearer, his face close, and closer to hers. Gertrude closed her eyes. It was coming, it was coming and she was glad. That silly old vow of celibacy, her silly old thoughts about art. What was art? What was anything with the arms of the man you loved closing about you. His lips were on hers.
Jimmie drew a sharp breath, and let her go.
“Gertrude,” he said, “I’m incorrigible. I ought to be spanked. I’d make love to—Eleanor’s grandmother if I had her down here on a night like this. Will you forgive me?”
Gertrude got to her feet a little unsteadily, but she managed a smile.
“It’s only the moon,” she said, “and—and young blood. I think Grandfather Amos would probably affect me the same way.”