There were no kabobs to cook to-night, for the food brought from the farm supplied a plentiful supper, but the brigands lighted a fire for the sake of keeping off wild beasts and evil spirits, and sat round it in great contentment. The prisoners declined the offer of a fire of their own, and sat on the ground at the upper part of the clearing, luxuriously propped against tree trunks, to watch the sunset glow which pierced the black canopy of leaves and branches overhead. To Eirene it suggested similar sunsets seen through boughs of pine or birch on the great plains of Scythia, and as though the magic of the hour had unloosed her tongue, she began to talk of the long summer evenings, when there was scarcely any actual night, and she had donned peasant costume, and attended by the governess who happened to be in favour at the moment, joined in the games and dances of the peasant girls on her father’s estate. Maurice listened, fascinated, half by the suggestion of a new side to Eirene’s character, half by the conviction that in any disguise she would still infallibly be a queen among subjects. If the subjects were recalcitrant, so much the worse for them. He drew her on by questions, laughed at her answers, and owned that he wished he had been there to take part in the revels—a suggestion which served to jar upon Zoe, who had been sitting silent.
“I do wish,” she said, opening her eyes wearily, “you wouldn’t disturb my meditations in this frivolous way. You forget the literary exigencies of the moment.”
“What are they?” asked Maurice. “Is it particularly literary to go to sleep leaning against a tree?”
“I said I was meditating,” was the severe answer. “You seem to forget that as all my note-books have been heartlessly reft from me, I have to store up all our experiences in my head.”
“Ready for the book? Is it to be a plain tale—or a decorated one—or a novel?”
“Both,” said Zoe decisively. “I find it would be a waste of good material to lavish it all on one. The plain tale of our adventures and sufferings will sell like wildfire, and pay for the novel, which will be all local colour. I shall keep all the choice bits of folklore and that sort of thing for it.”
“I know you said once that people always skipped the local colour in reading a book,” objected Eirene.
“How can they, if it’s all local colour?”
“They needn’t read the book,” said Maurice.
“That’s why I shall need the success of the plain tale to pay for it,” returned Zoe calmly. “I shall have a succès d’estime with the novel. And after that, I shall never have to trouble about local colour again all my life.”