“Then we are quits, are we not,” she asked, “since we each made a mistake?”
“You did not make a mistake,” I protested, “so we are not quits until you have forgiven me.”
She held out her hand with a charming gesture.
“You are forgiven,” she said, “so far as you need forgiveness. And now,” she continued, drawing away the hand which I had not the courage to relinquish, and rising quickly to her feet, “what are your plans?”
“There is down yonder,” I answered, “a charming little brook, which purls over the stones, and stops to loiter, here and there, in the basins of the rock. The water is very cool and clear.”
“Then come!” she cried. “Ah, I am desperately thirsty and frightfully dirty. I am ashamed for you to see me!”
“I was just marvelling,” I retorted, “that you had kept yourself so immaculate. I cannot understand it.”
“Immaculate!” she echoed, and set off down the slope.
But suddenly she stopped.
“Shall we return?” she asked. “Shall we see the cave again?”