“You can reach further with a story.”
“I suppose so. You do not have to knuckle down to rules. You can let your vision have a say, and your feelings.” Northrup, seeing that his book must play a part, accepted that fact.
“I suppose”––Mary-Clare was looking wistfully up at Northrup––“all the people in your books work out what you believe is truth. I can always feel truth in a book––or the lack of it.”
In the near distance Noreen and Jan-an were gathering wood. They were singing and shouting lustily.
“May I sit on your log?” Northrup spoke hurriedly.
“Of course,” and Mary-Clare moved a little. “The sun’s gone,” she went on. “It’s quite dark in the valley.”
“It’s still light here––and there’s the fire.” Northrup was watching the face beside him.
“Yes, the fire, and presently the moon rising, just over there.”
Restraint lay between the two on the mossy log. They both resented it.
“You know, you must know, that I’d rather have you share my book than any one else.” Northrup spoke almost roughly.