In time, they had left Penang,—­another unheeded background for her arch, innocent, appealing face,—­and forged down the Strait of Malacca in a flood of nebulous moonlight.  It was the last night out from Singapore.  That veiled brightness, as they leaned on the rail, showed her brown hair fluttering dimly, her face pale, half real, half magical, her eyes dark and undefined pools of mystery.  It was late; they had been silent for a long time; and Rudolph felt that something beyond the territory of words remained to be said, and that the one brilliant epoch of his life now drew madly to a close.

“What do you think of it all?” the woman asked suddenly, gravely, as though they had been isolated together in the deep spaces of the same thought.

“I do not yet—­Of what?” rejoined Rudolph, at a loss.

“Of all this.”  She waved an eloquent little gesture toward the azure-lighted gulf.

“Oh,” he said.  “Of the world?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly.  “The world.  Life.”  Her tone, subdued and musical, conveyed in the mere words their full enigma and full meaning.  “All this that we see.”

“Who can tell?” He took her seriously, and ransacked all his store of second-hand philosophy for a worthy answer,—­a musty store, dead and pedantic, after the thrilling spirit of her words.  “Why, I think—­it is—­is it not all now the sense-manifest substance of our duty?  Pardon.  I am obscure. ‘Das versinnlichte Material unserer Pflicht’ No?”

Her clear laughter startled him.

“Oh, how moral!” she cried.  “What a highly moral little griffin!”

She laughed again (but this time it was like the splash of water in a deep well), and turned toward him that curiously tilted point of chin and mouth, her eyes shadowy and mocking.  She looked young again,—­the spirit of youth, of knowledge, of wonderful brightness and unbelief.

“Must we take it so very, very hard?” she coaxed.  “Isn’t it just a place to be happy in?”

As through a tumult he heard, and recognized the wisdom of the ages.

“Because,” she added, “it lasts such a little while—­”

On the rail their hands suddenly touched.  He was aware of nothing but the nearness and pallor of her face, the darkness of her eyes shining up at him.  All his life seemed to have rushed concentrating into that one instant of extreme trouble, happiness, trembling fascination.

Footsteps sounded on the deck behind them; an unwelcome voice called jocosely:—­

“Good efening!” The ship’s doctor advanced with a roguish, paternal air.  “You see at the phosphor, not?”

Even as she whipped about toward the light, Rudolph had seen, with a touch of wonder, how her face changed from a bitter frown to the most friendly smile.  The frown returned, became almost savage, when the fat physician continued:—­

“To see the phosphor is too much moon, Mrs. Forrester?”