“We had plenty to spare—could have got along better with less.”
His cheerfulness was certainly unaffected. The two pairs of dark eyes watched each other narrowly, his keen and amused, hers with their stolid surface and slumbering fires.
“But you were wounded!” she said, triumphantly.
“Never was hit in my life.”
“But you have been ill!”
“Oh, ill, fast enough—rheumatism.”
Her eyes softened. “Ah, sleeping on the damp ground!”
“No. Drink.”
For a moment the sullen fires in Catalina boiled high, then her eyes caught the sparkle in his and she burst into a ringing peal of laughter. She laughed rarely, and when she did her whole being vibrated to the buoyancy of youth.
“Well,” she said, gayly, “I hope you have reformed. The Moultons are temperance—rabid—and I had rheumatism once from camping out. I had to set my teeth for a week. Then I went to a sulphur spring and cured it. But I am hungry. Isn’t there a restaurant here, somewhere?”