"Why are you Miss Coles?" I asked.
"I'm not—really." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "It's more fun to be Miss while the divorce is pending. I'm from California—nobody knows me here."
"And you're getting a divorce?"
She nodded slowly. And then with a flash of engaging frankness: "No, I'm not," she said; "he is."
"Oh!"
We strolled on in silence for a moment, and then as if by agreement came to a sudden halt and looked at each other.
Then she laughed softly, her head tilted back, and her round bare throat showing very white in the moonlight.
I threw my cigar into a bed of scarlet flowers.