So he went away from the ball-room, out onto the dim veranda, and strode up and down muttering things better left unmuttered. Presently he stopped at the far shadowed end, lit a cigarette, snapped his case viciously, and said “damn.”
A demure voice just behind him said “shocking!” and he turned to confront a small figure in a big chair backed up against the wall.
“I repeat, shocking,” said the voice—a very nice voice. And giggled—a very ripply little gurgly little giggle.
His anger went away.
“Mysterious lady of the shadows,” he said (he was very good at that sort of thing),“does my righteous wrath amuse you?”
He came nearer. He had thought he knew every girl at the Hotel. Here was a strange one, and pretty. Very. He decided that monopolizing Virginia had been a mistake.
“It’s not a night for wrath, righteous or otherwise. See!” and she stretched out her arms to the great moon hanging low over the golf links beyond.
He hunted for a chair. This was bully. And when he had drawn one up, quite close:
“Whence do you come, all silvery with the moon, to chide me for my sins, moon maid?”
Without doubt he was outdoing himself.