"I was just thinking what a pity it was that during all these years your gifts have been so prodigally wasted. You have, I think, the greatest gift of all."
"And what is that?"
"The talent for living."
"Have I? Then I've learned it to-day. I have lived to-day, John," she whispered. "I have lived every hour of it." She watched the yellow rope of smoke which rose from the damp log. "The talent for living!" she mused. "I never thought of that."
"Yes, it's a talent, a fine art; but you've got to have your root in the soil, Hermia—unless you're an orchid."
"That's it, I know. But I'm not an orchid any longer."
Markham rose and knocked his pipe out.
"No," he smiled, "you're a night-blooming cereus—and so am I. You must remember that in this world the darkness was made for sleep, dawn for waking. The birds know that. So does Cleofonte. Therefore, you, too, child, shall sleep—and at once."
He raised the tarpaulin, scraped the ground free of twigs and stones, and then laid it back carefully, fetching his overcoat for a pillow.
"Voilà, Mademoiselle, your sheets have been airing all day. I hope you fill find the mattress to your liking."