"I reckon they aren't. Since the show turned out a fake, there's not a bob to be raised anywhere. They're turning up tick at the store; too. They growl if you ask for a tin of dog."
"I reckon, Dad, Mr. Power might give us a hand until things was better, if it was put to him," said the woman.
"Is that what you are after?" Power answered.
"A-haw, haw, haw! We wouldn't say no if you made the offer," said Gregory, showing his dirty teeth.
"I'll think about it."
"There's a gentleman for you, mother! Put it here, Mr. Power." Gregory pushed out a dirty hand.
"It's early yet," Power answered from the doorway.
Presently Power and Molly were wandering among the trees—the night fallen upon them, dark, hot and murmurous with tiny voices.
They wandered along old ways, and said again old sayings, and did again old deeds. Who shall answer why she was ready to wander with him night by night through these majestic ways, taking his kisses, lying within his arms, and caring nothing for him? Lips set upon lips—no more could his kisses mean to her. Perhaps she had grown so lonely that she could bid no one begone. Perhaps twenty years of that hot land had set in flames her little heart. Perhaps it was her doom to fan fever and make men mad. Why did he come and come again, a threadbare lover, the despised even of himself? Why was he so unwearying with his embraces, unless it was because he had become an amorous wandering Jew, who had scoffed once at pure lips, and must now kiss for ever, and for ever fail to set passion afire.
They sat down presently on a fallen tree lying among the climbing grasses at the upper end of the Pool. Night by night he and she from their seat there had remarked the margin of the water shrink from them. To-night they sat down again—he to wonder at his madness, she to do a hundred wanton acts—to tease the dog, to toss boughs upon the water and hark to the sudden splash.