Hand in hand, they strolled on the beach and bathed in the silent flood of the moonlit night—no prying eyes near save the stars of the friendly southern skies.
“The moon seems different down here, Jim!” she whispered.
“It is different,” he answered with boyish enthusiasm. “It's all so still and white!”
“Could we stay here forever?”
He shook his head emphatically.
“Not on your life. This little boy has to work, you know. Old man John D. Rockefeller might, but it's early for a young financier to retire.”
“A whole week, then?”
“Sure! For a week we'll forget New York.”
They sat down on the sand-dune behind the tent and watched the waters flash in the silvery light, the world and its fevered life forgotten.
“You're the only thing real tonight, Jim!” she sighed.