"The next thing—you will be asking me to go in to Gracias barefoot," continued Garda. "But I never could, never; one step on this sand would make me all creepy."
"Well," said Winthrop at last, accepting his fate, "I suppose I might as well make a fire."
"It's what I wanted you to do in the first place," answered Garda, serenely.
He made a fire that leaped high towards heaven. He made it systematically, first with twigs and pine cones which he collected and piled together with precision before applying the match; then he added dry branches, which he searched for and hauled in with much patience and energy.
"When I asked you to make a fire, I did not suppose you would be away all night," remarked Garda, as he returned from one of these expeditions, dragging another great load behind him.
"All night? Twenty minutes, perhaps."
"At least an hour."
He looked at his watch by the light of the blaze and found that she was right; he had been at work an hour. As he had now collected a great heap of branches for further supply, he stood still, watching his handiwork; Garda was sitting, or rather half reclining, on his coat, her back against a pine, her slippers extended towards the glow.
"You look sleepy," he said, smiling to see her drowsy eyes. "But I am glad to add that you also look warm."
"Yes, I am extremely comfortable. But, as you say, I am sleepy; would you mind it if I should really fall asleep?"