"There is a spice of the nomad in all of us," said Irene, pulling up her hardy Somali pony and allowing him to graze on some prickly plant from which a grass-fed animal would have turned in hungry disgust.
"Here am I, quite new to desert life, enjoying it to the full. Perhaps my remote ancestors were gipsies. Do I look like a gipsy, Mr. Royson?"
"My acquaintance with gipsies is limited," said Dick. "Once, being free from office troubles on Derby Day, I walked over Epsom Downs, and was beseeched many times to have my fortune told. Most of the prophetesses—they were all of your sex, Miss Fenshawe—were blessed with exceedingly fine complexions and beautiful eyes. If these are marked features of the gipsy tribe—"
"Don't you dare bring me out here in order to pay compliments."
"Indeed, I am but stating the bare truth to your face."
"If you persist, then, I shall be compelled to act the part of a gipsy and tell your fortune, and I warn you that it will not be very cheerful hearing."
Royson gazed beyond her towards a white mist which shrouded the eastern horizon. Overhead, the delicious blue of early morning was yielding to the noonday tint of molten copper.
"Even if we turn back to-day there are thirty marches between us and the sea," he said with seeming irrelevance.
But those two were beginning to understand one another, and the girl colored under the deep tan of sun and air.
"Whenever we are alone now you insist on talking nonsense," she said. "I really believe the desert has made you light-headed. Please be serious for a moment. I brought you here to—"