“Can we have a fire?” asked Cleves, relieving his wife of her pack and striding into the open-faced camp.
“Yes, I’ll fix it,” replied Selden. “Are you all right, Mrs. Cleves?”
Tressa said: “Delightfully tired, thank you.” And smiled faintly at her husband as he let go his own pack, knelt, and spread a blanket for his wife.
He remained there, kneeling, as she seated herself.
“Are you quite fit?” he asked bluntly. Yet, through his brusqueness her ear caught a vague undertone of something else—anxiety perhaps—perhaps tenderness. And her heart stirred deliciously in her breast.
He inflated a pillow for her; the firelight glimmered, brightened, spread glowing across her feet. She lay back with a slight sigh, relaxed.
Then, suddenly, the thrill of her husband’s touch flooded her face with colour; but she lay motionless, one arm flung across her eyes, while he unrolled her puttees and unlaced her muddy shoes.
A heavenly warmth from the fire dried her stockinged feet. Later, on the edge of sleep, she opened her eyes and found herself propped upright on her husband’s shoulder.
Drowsily, obediently she swallowed spoonfuls of the hot broth which he administered.
“Are you really quite comfortable, dear?” he whispered.