They strolled about, drank in the rich tropical perfume of the night, and looked off to where the sea lay—huge, mysterious, and musical—lipping the beach. There was a moon and the stars hung low and yellow in a deep blue velvet sky.
The band swung into a waltz, and the dancers began to revolve. Isabelle’s heart beat an extra tap or two. She saw Captain O’Leary’s closely cropped head in the distance. He caught sight of her, and hurried toward them with that swinging, marching gait of his. He bowed and offered his arm. Isabelle took it in silence and they went to the dancing floor.
She looked like a little girl in her straight white gown, and the top of her head came well below his shoulder. They glided off without a word. The Captain was an accomplished dancer, also he danced because he loved it. In the same way it was speech to Isabelle; it expressed her, it was a natural gift. They were like one person, moved by one will. Encore followed encore. Only once was a word exchanged between them; and then, as they waited for the music to begin again, she lifted shining eyes to his, and he leaned toward her quickly:
“Ye little moonbeam!” he said, softly.
Then they went on again. Time and space were not, for Isabelle. She was a part of elemental Nature—a part of sea and sky and deep bosomed tropical night. Even as Larry O’Leary had said, she was a child of the lady moon, a beam of her silver light.
When, finally, it was over, they found Miss Watts waiting for them, a few steps away.
“Here I am,” she said, in her usual voice, as if the whole world had not changed its face. “You had a nice long dance, didn’t you?”
“Wonderful!” said the Irishman, in a voice that thrilled. “Now we’re getting acquainted,“ he added, bending down to Isabelle. ”I thank you, Miss Moonbeam,” he whispered.
Isabelle smiled at him. She had not said one word since he led her forth. She felt a little dizzy with everything. Speech was unnecessary. He left them, then, and Miss Watts smiled at her.
“Did you enjoy it, Isabelle?” she asked pleasantly.