"Huntley Van Horn strolled down Kalakaua Avenue in the direction of Shelah Fane's house. On this tiny island in the midst of the rolling Pacific few outward signs of a romantic past survived. He might have been on Hollywood Boulevard: the parade of automobiles along that stretch of American asphalt was constant a trolley clattered by he walked on a concrete sidewalk under the soft yellow glow of modern streetlamps. Yet beyond the range of those lamps he was conscious of the black velvet of a tropic night. He caught the odor of ginger blossoms and plumeria a croton hedge gave way to one of hibiscus topped with pale pink flowers that were doomed to die at midnight."