"I can't see why he's taken such a tremendous shine to you!" complained
Diane mockingly.

"Nor I!" agreed Philip, knocking the ashes from his pipe.

"You've been filling his pockets with money!" accused Diane
indignantly. "It's the only explanation of the demented way he trots
around after you."

"Disposition, beauty, singular grace and common sense all pale in the
face of the ulterior motive," Philip modestly told his pipe. "What a
moon!" he added softly. "Great guns, what a moon!"

Beyond, through the dark of the trees, softly silvered by the moon
above the ridge, glimmered the river, winding along by peaceful forest
and meadows edged with grass and mint. There was moon-bright dew upon
the clover and high upon the ridge a tree showed dark and full against
the moon in lonely silhouette. It was an enchanted wood of moonlit
depth and noisy quiet, of shrilling crickets, the plaintive cries of
tree frogs, the drowsy crackle of the camp fire, or the lap of water by
the shore, with sometimes the lonely hoot of an owl.

"A while back," mused Diane innocently, "there was a shooting star
above the ridge--"

"Yes?" said Philip puffing comfortably at his pipe.

"I meant to call your attention to it but 'Hey!' and 'Look!' were
dreadfully abrupt."