While he stood observing her the thought took shape in his mind and grew, as he watched her simple delight in what at another time would have delighted him equally, but which now he scarcely heeded, that it was an eternal shame he should of his own act, through his lack of endeavour, reduce himself to a level which divided him from her, and from women like her, as widely as the gorge was divided from the heights. But a steep uphill road connected gorge and heights. He looked down the road and up at the heights and frowned. Then deliberately he turned his attention away from the girl and started idly to trace patterns with his stick in the dust. She looked round at him with happy eyes, in which surprise gathered as she noted his preoccupation.
“But you are not watching the sunrise!” she exclaimed.
“It is disappointing,” he replied. “Yesterday it was finer. It is one of nature’s exhaustless perplexities that she never reveals herself in the same guise twice. Shall we go on?”
She started to walk again, a little chilled, she scarcely knew why, by his manner. She decided that possibly he enjoyed best seeing these things alone. Some people take their pleasures selfishly; he might be one of these. To her the sunrise had been wonderful; and she longed to express her admiration, to share it; but this grave and silent companion made her silent also. She felt disappointed. He stole a glance at her serious face, and his features relaxed; a smile played about the corners of his mouth.
“You had better take off your coat,” he said. “The sun soon makes his power felt.”
He helped her to remove the coat, and threw it over his shoulder and walked on, holding it with his disengaged hand.
“If the people at the hotel could see us they would be amazed,” he said.
“Why?” she asked, a fine colour coming into her cheeks, which deepened as she met his eyes.
“Because no one there has ever seen me do a service for any one,” he replied.
“Perhaps no one has demanded service of you,” she said quietly.