To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire.
"I think the natives saw you coming out of the lagoon, one dawn.
For you say that you swim.

Wonderful! The water, dripping from you, must have looked like pearls.

Do you know what?
You're some sea goddess and you're only fooling us." He opened his eyes, to behold hers large with wonder.
"And you saw all that in your mind ?" "It wasn't difficult.

You yourself supplied the details.

All I had to do was to piece them together." "But I never told you how the natives fished." "Perhaps I read of it somewhere." "Still, you forgot something." "What did I forget ?" "The breathless days and the faded, pitiless sky.