“You seem to notice things,” Joan admitted. “I wonder who you are.”
Prospero brushed her inquiry aside.
“A little parlour conjuring to finish up the part in due form?” he suggested. “It’s almost time for our dance. Look!”
He held out an empty hand for Joan’s inspection, then made a slight snatch in the air as if seizing something in flight. When he extended his hand again, a small diamond star glittered in the palm.
“Take it, Joan,” said Sir Clinton in his natural voice. “I meant to send it to you to-morrow; but at the last moment I thought I might as well bring it with me and have the pleasure of giving it to you myself. It’s your birthday present. I’m an old enough friend to give you diamonds on a special occasion like this.”
“You took me in completely,” Joan admitted, after she had thanked him. “I couldn’t make out who you were; and I thought you were the limit in insolence when you began talking about my private affairs.”
“It’s Michael Clifton, of course?” Sir Clinton asked.
“Why ‘of course’? One would think he’d been my last chance, by the way you put it. This living on a magic island has ruined your manners, my good Prospero.”
“Well, he won’t let you down, Joan. You—shall I say, even you, to be tactful—couldn’t have done better in the raffle.”
Before Joan could reply, a girl in Egyptian costume came past their chairs. Joan stopped her with a gesture.