Packy, who had strolled on to the dunes for a pipe before returning to his boat, found himself in a world of shadows, and after one or two stumbles on the uncertain pathway he decided to sit down and stroll no more. In the matter of alcoholic stimulants, Packy had lagged behind his fellow-revellers both during dinner and after it, wishing to keep his head clear for the fascinating of Mr Gedge. He reaped the reward of his abstinence now in a heightened appreciation of the beauties of the night. It was a warm, soft, silky night, restfully silent. From time to time there came from the direction of the Amusement Gardens the noise of Gallic mirth, but it was too faint to compete with the musical splash of the waves on the shore below. Little breezes whispered about his ears. Shy moths fluttered to and fro. In short, taken by and large, the setting and surroundings were ideal for a good, long lover's reverie. But Packy, oddly enough, was not thinking of Beatrice. It was the picture of the girl Jane Opal which filled his mind.
