"A long way," agreed Roger, "and I have no idea whether I'm helping or hindering labor. I only know now that my job is to make deserts bloom. Let labor go hang!"
Charley did not answer. She sat with her brown hands clasping her khaki knees, her hat pulled low over her eyes. Roger eyed her affectionately. It occurred to him that since Felicia's death, she had seemed more than ever like a fine intelligent boy. And yet he was honest enough to tell himself that there was infinitely more satisfaction in sitting in a hollowed rock with Charley than with any boy he had ever known. Suddenly Roger put his long arm across Charley's fine shoulders.
"Charley, you old dear!" he said. "I am mighty fond of you! You're the best man I know."
Charley said nothing for a moment. She reached up to clasp the hand that hung over her shoulder, then she turned to look into Roger's face and there was that in her eyes that held him speechless. There was in them Felicia's innocence and Felicia's eternal query. There was Charley's own sweetness and wistfulness, but back of these were burning depths of which Roger as yet had no understanding but they stirred him so profoundly that he paled beneath his tan.
"I'm glad you're fond of me, Roger. I'm fond of you." Charley's voice was gentle.
Roger's hand tightened on the girl's. "You are very beautiful," he said, a little breathlessly. "Even with your face all dust, and in khaki, you are beautiful."
"I am glad," replied Charley with a smile that showed her white teeth.
Roger did not speak again for a long time, but he did not release Charley's hand until she said, "Roger, the storm is going down."
Then he rose and stood staring at her until, smiling again, she said, "If you'll push your friend Peter out of the spring, I'll see if I can get clean water for us."