The day after the loss of her Chinese coat was the last day at sea. They were to land sometime in the morning. When she woke from her troubled dreams, Isabelle’s thought was that she would stay in her stateroom until it was time to disembark. She could not decide whether to tell Miss Watts the story of her mistake and ask her advice, or whether it was sufficiently disgraceful to be kept a secret.

She reviewed it for the thousandth time,—the open doors, all alike, the entrance into the wrong one, her leisurely disposal of her coat, and then her hand planted firmly in the middle of that strange face—that moustached face! Could he have seen her and recognized her in the moment she stood before him? It was dark in the room, except for a dim light from the corridor. Was there anything about the coat which could identify her? Should she give the stewardess twenty-five dollars and tell her to get it, and answer no questions? But how would she explain its being in that room? It was simple enough to her, how it got there, but you never could tell how other people would take a thing. She decided to let the coat remain, and tell no one of the incident.

But granted that there was no way for the man to identify her, why need she hide? It was a beautiful warm day and the cabin was stuffy. No, she would go forth and count the number of men aboard who wore moustaches.

He wore one!!!

It flashed into her mind in italics! Captain Larry O’Leary wore one! Suppose...! She blushed at the thought, and began hurriedly to dress. Miss Watts had already gone forth for a promenade before breakfast. Arrayed in one of her white linen suits and a close boyish white hat, Isabelle fared forth to join her companion. But half way down the deck, she hesitated, for her companion was already companioned. None other than the gallant Captain O’Leary strode the deck by her side. Before Isabelle could flee, they turned suddenly and saw her. They came toward her. Two feet from where she stood, the Captain halted, bowed, said audibly:

“Thus far, and no farther, Miss Watts. Here lies the safety line.” He indicated an imaginary line with an immaculate boot.

Miss Watts looked her surprise.

“You know Captain O’Leary, Isabelle? Surely I saw you talking. Miss Bryce, Captain O’Leary.”

He bowed gravely.

“Miss Bryce,” he said, formally.

“Captain O’Leary,” she replied, looking intently at his moustache.

He passed his hand over his face slowly with inquiry in his eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” mumbled Isabelle, blushing.

“I know. I remind ye of somebody. I always remind everybody of somebody,” he added, with his pleasant suggestion of brogue.

Isabelle seized upon the opportunity.

“You do, rather. Isn’t he like Patsy Reilly, the gardener’s boy at The Beeches, Miss Watts?”

“Why no!” exploded Miss Watts. “Certainly not.”

The Captain laughed.

“I told ye so. Mine is the universal physiognomy! Stuffy night, wasn’t it?” he added, changing the subject abruptly.

Isabelle glanced at him quickly.

“I didn’t find it so,” she said. “Coming to breakfast, Miss Watts?”

“Yes. Walk round the deck with us once, as an appetizer?”

“No, thanks. I’m famished.”

“Miss Bryce would rather devour an Irishman as an appetizer before breakfast. ‘Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Irishman’.”

“I’d prefer an Englishman, or a German!” retorted Isabelle, as she nodded and led the way to breakfast.

She pondered his remark about the stuffy night with a fluttering heart. Did he know? Did he suspect her? She watched men with moustaches, and tried to listen to their conversation. There were a good many English officers aboard with the regulation hirsute adornment of the upper lip. True to our custom of following English fashions, more than half the American men aboard had diminutive twisted affairs on the upper lip. There was no use trying to identify “the man” by the moustache. She listened for conversation verging upon the Far East—incidentally Chinese embroideries—but in vain.

She watched her chance when no one was about, to consult the ship register to see what men were in that corridor. She discovered five English officers were in that tier. In short they arrived, and disembarked without Isabelle finding a single clue to the gentleman who had her treasured coat.

Captain O’Leary was civil about their baggage, and getting them a vehicle to go to the hotel.

“Are ye sure that ye have everything that belongs to ye?” he inquired, his eyes on Isabelle.

What did he mean? Did he mean anything except what he said?

“Yes, thanks,” replied Miss Watts. “So glad you are staying at our hotel. We’ll see you later,” she added, and they rode off, leaving him smiling after them, bare-headed in the sunlight.

“Most charming man I ever met!” exclaimed Miss Watts.

“Umm-m,” said Isabelle.

It was like a miracle to step out on to the terrace of the hotel, after dinner that night. To have left New York on a cold, raw fall day, and in two days to find oneself in this warm, odorous night air. The band played, and white-clad figures walked, danced, sat in groups over coffee. Everywhere relaxed, happy, laughing people.

It was not the season on the island but so many English officers came to recuperate here, so many Americans, shut out of Europe, came down from New York for a week or so, that it was unusually gay.

Mrs.Darlington and Captain O’Leary were dancing when Miss Watts and Isabelle entered the large gallery at the edge of the platform. Mrs. Darlington was regal in evening dress, and the pair attracted much attention as they danced. The Captain bowed as he passed and evidently spoke to his partner about them, for she glanced back at them. She shrugged her shoulders, and he led her in their direction.

“Lovely night, isn’t it? Mrs.Darlington, Miss Watts and Miss Bryce,” he said.

“I tried to meet Miss Bryce on the boat, but she snubbed me,” laughed Mrs.Darlington, making Isabelle feel very young and crude.

Isabelle frowned and made no denial, so Captain O’Leary remarked:

“Do you disdain the dance, Miss Bryce?”

“No.”

“Would you honour me?”

Isabelle glanced at Miss Watts, who looked uncomfortable.

“Isabelle is not out yet. Her mother wishes her to be inconspicuous here,” she began.

“Imagine Isabelle inconspicuous,” laughed Mrs.Darlington again.

Isabelle decided that she hated her!

“But it’s different out here—it’s not a ball room, ye know. It’s just dancin’ round,” said the Irishman.

“Yes, that’s true. Oh, I think it would be all right,” agreed Miss Watts, unable to deny him the moon, if he asked for it.

“The next then, Miss Bryce?”

“Thank you,” she said.

He went away with his partner, who was decidedly bored with the conversation.

“Surly little thing,” she remarked, audibly.

“She is certainly a beautiful woman,” Miss Watts remarked, looking after them.

“Beautiful? Oh, yes, if you like a vamp.”

“A what?”

“Vampire; you see them in movies.”

“Isabelle!” protested the older woman.

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.

“No!” flashed the girl, unexpectedly. “I am going to bed.”

“That’s sensible. We will enjoy our sleep to-night in a real bed.”

But Isabelle was not thinking of sleep!

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