Taber is the name. She stared. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style.
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