They're on the island for some months before he really notices how pretty her hair is when it shimmers in the sunlight.
Soon, he realizes the sunlight is optional.
Before long, it is the dulcet caress of her voice—softer and more invigorating than even the best of sea breezes—that enamors him. Her sparkling eyes are next.
At the Howells' midsummer fête, he asks her to dance. Her hand in his is delightfully cool, slender yet strong—a microcosm of herself.
She is a good dancer, and as they traverse the "floor," he cracks one nervous joke, then another. Her laughter is sweet and silver and genuine; her teeth glow.
She eventually switches partners, but he will dance with no one else for the rest of the night. And long after the party winds down, he finds himself unable to sleep.
He loves her, he decides. He's just not quite sure what to do about it. So he looks to the place where men of his trade have sought guidance for centuries.
But—perhaps because she is one of them, and they are feeling coy—the stars give him no advice on this point.