She was far too angry to speak. He stood under the trees and watched her as she descended the hillside toward the house, just visible below.
Down she went through the heated wild grass and ferns, stepping daintily over gulleys, avoiding jutting rocks, down, ever down hill, receding farther and farther from his view until, a long way below him, he saw her halt, a tiny, distant figure shining white and motionless in the sun.
He waited for her to move on again out of sight. She did not.
After a long while he saw her lift one arm and beckon him.
"Am I a Fido?" he asked himself. "Damn it, I believe I am." And he started leisurely down hill.
When he joined her where she stood waiting, her brown eyes avoided his glance and the colour in her cheeks grew brighter.
"If you believe," she said, "that my mind controls my heart, why don't you make it an intellectual argument with me? Why not appeal to my reason? Because I—I am intelligent enough to be open to conviction—if your logic proves sounder than—mine."
"I can't make love to you logically. Love doesn't admit of it."
"Love is logical—or it's piffle!"
"I don't know how to make intellectual love."