They crossed over, sinking in the sand as they stepped from the road to
the beach, till Georgina had to take off her slippers and shake them
before she could settle down comfortably on the bench in the pavilion.
They sat there a while without speaking, just as they had sat before the
pictures on the films, for never on any film was ever shown a scene of
such entrancing loveliness as the one spread out before them. In the
broad path made by the moon hung ghostly sails, rose great masts,
twinkled myriads of lights. It was so still they could hear the swish of
the tide creeping up below, the dip of near-by oars and the chug of a
motor boat, far away down by the railroad wharf.

Then Belle began to talk. She looked straight out across the shining path
of the moon and spoke as if she were by herself. She did not look at
Georgina, sitting there beside her. Perhaps if she had, she would have
realized that her listener was only a child and would not have said all
she did. Or maybe, something within her felt the influence of the night,
the magical drawing of the moon as the tide feels it, and she could not
hold back the long-repressed speech that rose to her lips. Maybe it was
that the play they had seen, quickened old memories into painful life
again.

It was on a night just like this, she told Georgina, that Emmett first
told her that he cared for her--ten years ago this summer. Ten years!
The whole of Georgina's little lifetime! And now Belle was twenty-seven.
Twenty-seven seemed very old to Georgina. She stole another upward glance
at her companion. Belle did not look old, sitting there in her white
dress, like a white moonflower in that silver radiance, a little lock of
soft blonde hair fluttering across her cheek.