“I don’t care for it, thank you.” As a matter of fact, she was at the stage where her stomach felt too tired for food. “All I want is a drink.”
“We’ll stop at the next village and get some beer.”
“I don’t drink beer.”
The Saint ploughed appreciatively on into his massive hunk of bread.
“The water should be all right in that stream over there,” he said, indicating it with a movement of his hand.
“Are you suggesting,” she inquired icily, “that I should go down on all fours and lap it up like a cow?”
Simon chewed.
“Like a gazelle,” he said, “would be more poetic.”
She closed her eyes and lay there motionlessly, and if he sensed the simmering of the volcano he gave no sign of it. He ate his fill and smoked a cigarette, then he walked over to the stream, drank frugally, and bathed his face. When he came back she was sitting up. He strapped his pack and hoisted it deftly.
“Ready?”