Hall got up and took her arm. "Shame on you, nurse," he said. "There's still a thousand sights to see up here."
"Lead on," she commanded. "We'll see who's potted."
Hall pointed to the edge of the restaurant. There was a mountain path at that end, a graveled path leading into a park of streams and cypresses. They followed this path until the forest closed in around them, and they were alone.
"My feet," Jerry said. "These shoes were not meant for serious mountain climbing."
"My lady." Hall spread his brown gabardine jacket in the moss bank adjacent to a small stream. She took off her shoes and stretched out on the jacket, her hands clasped under her head.
"You know," she said, "if I weren't so full of food I'd take my stockings off and dip my feet in the creek. I just haven't the strength to move."
Hall lit a cigarette, put it in the girl's mouth. "If you ever dipped one of your dainty gringo toes in this burbling frigidaire," he said, "they'd hear your screams twelve miles out at sea."
Jerry sat up and hummed the tune of "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf." She took off her stockings, started to edge down toward the stream. "Here, help me up." She extended a hand to Hall, who pulled her to her feet. "I'm going wading."
There was no scream when Jerry stepped into the water. Her breath just stopped. She yanked her foot out of the stream as if it were a blazing inferno, hopped around on the dry foot with tears in her eyes, and then lay down on the jacket.
"Well, anyway," she said, when she could catch her breath, "I didn't scream."