It was true that once a boat docked anywhere on this friendly island, the cottagers and lodge guests swarmed aboard. They were always welcome. But she was not dressed for such an occasion. All her party clothes were on shore. She looked at her smoke-browned slacks, at her blouse torn at the sleeve, then murmured with a low laugh, “Invitation to the dance. But not for me. I’ll be a spectator. They won’t even know I am here.”
It was a large white yacht that at last tied up at the dock.
Sounding out in the silent night and across the dark, mysterious bay that lay beneath the stars, the music was enchanting.
The wail of violins, the tum-tum-tum of the bases, the organ-like roll of a piano accordion all seemed to blend with the beauty of the night.
“It’s glorious!” Florence whispered.
At that instant once again her eyes caught and were held by that faint red threat against the sky.
“The fire!” she exclaimed softly. “Must all this beauty vanish? No!” Her hands were tight clinched now. “No! It must not. At all cost we must save the island.”
But now there was a stir on the deck of the yacht. Something unusual was about to happen. What that was, for the moment, she could not tell.
She gave herself over to speculation regarding the people on that boat. Were they rich? Some of them must be. The yacht was magnificent in its burnished brass and polished mahogany.
“Not all are rich,” she told herself. “Some are guests of honor, famous people perhaps, artists, writers, musicians, dancers—”