Once, while they were resting, Phyllis said:
"All you seem to think of is the fun you're having. Most men would be thinking about the anxiety they were causing others and about the miseries of their companion."
"But," he protested, "you are enjoying yourself too. You don't think you are, but you are. It's your philosophy that is wrong. You like to live too much in the present. I like to lay by stores of delightful memories against rainy days. The worse you feel now, the more you'll enjoy remembering how you felt—some evening, soon—your back against soft cushions and the soles of your feet toward the fire."
"Ugh!" shuddered Phyllis. "Don't talk about fires. Oh, dear!"
"What's wrong now!"
"I'm so stiff I don't think I can take another step. We oughtn't to have rested so long."
But she did take another step, and would have fallen heavily if Herring had not caught her. A moment later she lost a shoe in the ooze, and wasted much precious daylight in vain efforts to locate and recover it.
"Sit down on that root," commanded Herring. And she obeyed. He knelt before her, lifted her wet, muddy little stockinged foot and set it on his knee.
"What size, please, miss?" he asked, giving an excellent imitation of a somewhat officious salesman.