into a host of angels, complete with wings, who played upon soundless harps. She said, "Little Ship, have you a Sculptor, or Painter, or Writer on board? If so, let him jump into the canal and drown muddily, lest he seem too foolish." No one went to bed until the moon had done conjuring.
"I couldn't see all the things she did," said one man to Beauling, "but I saw enough."
"So did I," said Beauling. He had looked this way and that way over the desert, and up, audaciously, into the very eyes of the blue-rimmed moon, and only seen Phylis coming to him across the sands or through the air. And that was enough. His heart was in tune; his imagination no more active than dough.
"Good night," he said.
"Made one feel small, didn't it?" said the man.
"Oh, no," said Beauling; "it couldn't do that. You see—I'm going home."
He changed off at Port Said into the little twin-screw mailer Isis. She tore away
