They sat down presently among the spear-like blades of the spiky grass, facing the tides and the evening sky, and Craven, with some difficulty, lit his pipe and persuaded it to draw, while she looked at his long-fingered brown hands.
“I couldn’t sit here with some people I know,” she said. “Desolation like this needs the right companion. Isn’t it odd how some people are only for certain places?”
“And I suppose the one person is for all places.”
“Do you feel at home with me here?” she asked him, rather abruptly and with a searching look at him.
“Yes, quite—since our game. A good game is a link, isn’t it?”
“For bodies.”
“Well, that means a good deal. We live in the body.”
“Some people marry through games, or hunting. They’re the bodily people. Others marry through the arts. Music pulls them together, or painting, or literature. They are mental.”
“Bodies—minds! And what about hearts?” asked Craven.
“The tide’s coming in. Hearts? They work in mystery, I believe. I expect when you love someone who hasn’t a taste in common with you your heart must be hard at work. Perhaps it is only opposites who can really love, those who don’t understand why. If you understand why you are on the ground, you have no need of wings. Have you ever been afraid of anyone?”