He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. She crooked her finger.
"What is it?"
"The night," she answered. "Come and see the lagoon in the moonlight."
He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. There was only one sound—the fall of the sea upon the main beach, and even that said: "Hush! Hush! Hus-s-sh!" Not a leaf stirred, not a shadow moved. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple.
"Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite wonderful . . . . There!"
Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups.
"What in the world is it?" he asked.
"Flying fish. Something is feeding upon them. I thought you might like to see. You might be able to use the picture some day."
"I don't know." He bent his head to his knees. "Something's wrong.
I can't invent; the thing won't come."
"Shall I tell you a real story?"