the dancing up there on the hotel veranda. She waited. She waited. She saw the glow of his cigar as he came down the pier, a tall, slim white figure in the moonlight. It was just like a novel. It was a novel, come to life. He stood a moment at the pier’s edge, smoking. Then he tossed his cigar into the water and it fell with a little s-st! He stood another moment, irresolutely. Then he came over to her.

“Nice night.”

In Okoochee you would have said, “Sir!” But not here. Not now. Not Maxine Pardieu. “Yes, isn’t it!”

The mellow moon fell full on him — bronzed, bearded, strangely familiar.

At his next question she felt a little faint. “Haven’t we — met before?”