On both sides of them now the trees were, in girth, enormous; the red light, gleaming out fitfully, did not seem to belong to them or to their torches, but to be an independent glow, coming from no one knew where.
"If we had the grace to have any imagination left in this bicycle century of ours," remarked Winthrop, "we should certainly be expecting to see some mammoth water creature, fifty feet long, lifting a flabby head here. For my own part, I am afraid my imagination, never very brilliant, is defunct; the most I can do is to think of the thousands of snakes there must be, squirming about under all this water,—not prehistoric at all, nor mammoths, but just nice natural every-day little moccasins, say about seven feet long."
Margaret shuddered.
He stopped his banter, his voice changed. "Do let me take you home," he urged. "You're tired out; give this thing up."
"I am not tired."
"You have been tired to the verge of death for months!"
"You know nothing about that," she said, coldly.
"Yes, I do. I have seen your face, and I know its expressions now; I didn't at first, but now I do. There's no use in your trying to deceive me Margaret, I know what your life is; remember, Lanse told me everything."
"That was long ago."
"What do you mean?" He leaned forward and grasped her arm as though he would make her turn.