"I read that one—the poems. I got quite lost in them."
"Which ones?" She looked up from the book eagerly.
"The Journey, and,—" I hesitated, "—The Riders." I was watching her face earnestly.
"Oh, how right you are!" She was perfectly simple about it. There was no conceit in her. "It means, doesn't it, that we already have a language? But you must read the essays, too. Then maybe we'll have a philosophy."
"I'll explore them with pleasure." I tried to keep the appeal out of my voice. "I have such a lot of things to do before I go."
She got this quite as I intended. "Well, we'll be perfectly natural and let come what may, as it seems to be all decided for us. We won't force the game. But I'm afraid you'll never be contented. You'll leave the island first, I'm quite sure."
I protested; she shook her head slowly. I knew she was thinking very hard of something. Her smile was wistful, her eyes, always fixed on mine, were almost somber in their expression.
"Would you dare promise?"
I knew now there was something behind all this; some fear of my presence.
"Shall I?" I fenced, more to draw her on than from any doubt of her meaning or reluctance to agree with her wish.