He hesitated for a moment by a large ventilator as he saw a young man leaning on the rail, studying the ocean. The boy’s profile was quaint in the dim overhead lights. Drew pulled his own hat lower, turned up the collar of his coat and approached the stranger with unhurried, gentle steps.
CHAPTER XIX
The concert hall quieted. Conversation hushed.
The White Peacock,[3] sorrowful and majestic, appeared in the faint light. Winding through deep white reeds, brushing through ghostly ferns, he approached. Wading the moon-puddles, breaking the mist with silver feathers, he looked at Deane. Holding his white throat into the stars, moving the fallen petals, he sang to her—sang a clear, demanding song of his remote, pale island. Deane shivered under the soft notes, loosening her gown. The White Peacock, his snowy tail drifting over the moon-flowers, lifted his scarlet eyes—lifted his eyes through clouds and placed each strong tone against her.... The music changed tempo. The white bird screamed shrilly, his bright whistle falling through glissandi of sound. The exquisite melody rose into the wind, hesitated, and dropped murmuring into the white sea.... The White Peacock faded in the fluid light, became distant—Deane, following with her arms the receding shadow.
The music died. People moved in their chairs and the subdued whispers grew into applause. The mood was broken and Deane touched her eyes. She put on a coat of soft gray fur, adjusted her little tight-fitting blue toque and carelessly pinned back on her collar a small bunch of violets which had fallen to her lap during the concert. As she was rising someone addressed her.
“Then you, too, are fond of modern music?”
Surprised, Deane looked up. Roberts stood before her.
“It was beautiful,” she answered. “Beautiful, and intimate.”