"Well," he admitted with a short laugh—"so am I."
She paused, regarding him with her whimsical, indulgent smile. "You strange creature!" she said softly. "Are you angry with me—impatient—for this too facile descent from heroics to the commonplace? But, Hugh"—she touched his arm with a gentle and persuasive hand—"it must be commonplace. We're just mortals, after all, you know, no matter how imperishable our egos make us feel: and the air of the heights is too fine and rare for mortals to breathe long at a time. Life is, after all, an everyday affair. We've just got to blunder through it from day to day—mostly on the low levels. Be patient with me, dear."
But, alarmed by his expression, her words stumbled and ran out. She stepped back a pace, a little flushed and tremulous.
"Hugh! No, Hugh, no!"
"Don't be afraid of me," he said, turning away. "I don't mean to bother. Only—at times—"
"I know, dear; but it must not be." She had recovered; there was cool decision in her accents. She began to move briskly round the kitchen, setting the table, preparing the meal.
He made no attempt to reason with her, but sat quietly waiting. His rôle was patience, tolerance, strength restrained in waiting....
"Shall you make a fire again to-night?" she asked, when they had concluded the meal.
"In three places," he said. "We'll not stay another day for want of letting people know we're here."
She looked down, shyly. Coquetry with her was instinctive, irrepressible. Her vague, provoking smile edged her lips: