“Yes. Isn’t this heavenly? I begin to believe it is life to me, this pearl-tinted world, and the scent of orange bloom and the stillness of paradise itself.”
She gazed out over the ghostly river. Not a wing stirred its glassy surface.
“Is this dull for you?” she asked in a low voice.
“Not if you are contented, Tressa.”
“You’re so nice about it. Don’t you think you might venture a day’s real shooting?”
“No, I think I won’t,” he replied.
“On my account?”
“Well—yes.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right as long as you’re getting rested. What is that instrument?”