"Frightfully so. I haven't eaten for ages."
He looked at his watch.
"It's only eleven, but of course—"
"Oh, don't let me interfere with your plans."
"You don't. I have no plans. We'll go into camp at once."
They descended the hill and after a while found a secluded spot near the river bank. Markham quickly unstrapped the donkey's pack and to Hermia's surprise drew forth a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottle of red wine which he set out with some pride on a flat rock near by.
"This," he announced, "is our dêjeuner à la fourchette. I won't apologize for it."
"Wonderful man! Somehow you remind me of the sleight-of-hand performer producing an omelette from a silk hat. I don't think I've ever been really hungry before in my life."
He opened the bottle with the corkscrew on his pocket-knife and watched her munching hungrily at the rye-bread.
"Half the pleasure in life, after all, is wanting a thing and getting it," he observed. "How can you want anything if you've already got it?"