Mason freshened magically under her sweet and self-contained companionship. She did not coddle him, nor bore him by attentions, but seemed to do the right thing instinctively. She assumed command over him in certain ways—that is, she insisted on his taking long walks and drives with her—though he sturdily refused to climb hills. "Bring me to them gradually," he said, "for I am from Egypt."
One Sunday afternoon he consented to try an easy one and they started out—she in radiant, laughing exultation, he in pretended dark foreboding of the outcome.
She led the way with swift, steady swing of skirts, her smiling face a challenge to him when he fell too far behind. He never ceased to admire her powerful, decisive movement and her radiant color, though he said nothing about it to her.
She stopped at a spring which came silently to light beneath an overhanging sandstone. There was no dipper, and Rose, with a new daring, dropped on her knees and dipped some of the cool, sweet water in her palm.
"Do you thirst, Sir Guy?"
He kneeled beside her with a comical groan, and drank from her hand.
"Thanks, a sweeter draught from fairer hand was never quaffed."
Rose was highly elated at the success of her trick. She dipped another palm full. He shook his head.
"With your permission I'll use my hat brim."
"I'll show you how to do it," she said. She rose and leaped the little stream, and flung herself down full length on the ground, and resting her palms on two flat stones, she drank from the pool, like an Indian.