"Rather good, that," I remarked as we got clear of the town.
"What was?" she asked.
"Abana, Pharpar and yet a third river of Damascus flowed near at hand, but it was the sluggish old waters of Jordan that were found worthy."
We were walking single-file along a footpath, and a stile imposed a temporary check. Sylvia mounted it and sat on the top bar, looking down on me.
"Are we going to be friends?" she asked abruptly.
"I sincerely hope so."
"It rests with you. And you must decide now, while there's still time to go back and get a cab at the station."
"We were starting rather well," I pointed out.
"That's just what you weren't doing," she said with a determined shake of the head. "If we're going to be friends, you must promise never to make remarks like that. You don't mean them, and I don't like them. Will you promise?"
"The flesh is weak," I protested.