“We have ridden, yes—but never alone since that first morning. The magic of the solitudes is not found among crowds.”
“Crowds!” murmured Honor, with a suspicion of laughter in her voice.
“Don’t tease,” he entreated. “You know exactly what I mean. One mind not entirely in sympathy with another can create its multitudes. Won’t you go with me again alone in search of the truth and the mystery which make the beauty of the veld? I want to see these things with your eyes.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because of your wonderful insight. One person looking into a puddle would see only the mud at the bottom, and another would perceive sufficient beauties of light and shade to transform even mud into a glorious substance. You have the gift of imagination—which is merely another term for being able to see truth. Teach me to see it also. I begin to believe that my destiny has led me here that I may learn that of you.”
“To see truth!” she said, and regarded him thoughtfully. “I wonder if you are being sincere? One doesn’t learn those things from another human being. But I’ll ride with you—to-morrow. Rise an hour earlier, and we will start before any one is about.”
She stood up suddenly and faced the west.
“See!” she said. “The sun has gone. I must go in and see about supper.”
He stood up also, and interposed himself in her path and looked down into her face, flushed with the sunset, and very fair and earnest in expression.
“I am always entirely sincere with you,” he said. “You mustn’t ever again question my sincerity.”