"Not now, Ollie." She smiled into his earnest, pleading eyes. "For those I love are here as well as there. I have Miela and Alan—and—"
"And?" Mercer leaned forward eagerly.
"And Miela's little son—that darling little baby. We must go back soon and see Miela. She will be wondering where we are."
Mercer sat back. "Oh," he said. "Yes, we must."
The band in the pavilion stopped its music. Mercer slid his little steel cross‑piece over the guitar strings and began to play the haunting, crying music of the islands, the music of moonlight and love. After a moment he stopped abruptly.
"Anina, that little song you sang in the boat that day—you remember—the day we went to the Water City? Sing it again, Anina."
She sang it through softly, just as she had in the boat, to its last ending little half‑sob.
Mercer laid his guitar on the sand beside him.
"You said that music talks to you, Anina—though sometimes you—you don't understand just what it tries to say. I feel it that way, too—only—only to‑night—now—I think I do understand."
His voice was very soft and earnest and just a trifle husky.