"Oh"—he paused. "So do I. But as I am not a Puritan, I scarcely hold myself responsible to you for my thoughts. One's thoughts are his own, and, as long as he keeps them to himself, he is entitled to as many as he pleases, of whatever variety he prefers."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course, and so do you."
"Yes, I did—but it seemed to me," she faltered, "that in the present case—oh, well, let it go." She laughed nervously, and said no more.
Lawrence wondered at her silence, and wanted to know very much what she thought, but he told himself that after all it was none of his business.
They had reached the river. The water rushed from the mouth of a gorge in rapids that sent its every drop sparkling and flashing over a great rock into a mass of white foam below.
"Oh," cried Claire, "it's beautiful, beautiful!"
He put her down and laughed. "It sounds as if it were leaping from points of light into cloud-banked foam."
She stared at him in amazement. "It is," she said in a subdued tone. "How did you know?"
"One learns," he said carelessly. "And how about a camp?"