“Good morning, Mrs. Virey,” returned Adam. “How are you—and did your husband awake?”
“I slept better than for long,” she replied, “and I think I know why.... Yes, Virey came to. He’s conscious, and asked for water. But he’s weak—strange. I’d like you to look at him presently.”
“Yes, I will.”
“And how are you after your tremendous exertions of yesterday?” she inquired.
“Not so spry,” said Adam, with a smile. “But I’ll be myself in a day or so. I believe the air down in the valley affected me a little. My lungs are sore.... I think it would be more comfortable for you if we had breakfast in your kitchen. The sun is hot.”
“Indeed yes. So you mean to—to do this—this camp work for me—in spite of——”
“Yes. I always oppose women,” he said. “And that is about once every two or three years. You see, women are scarce on the desert.”
“Last night I was upset. I am sorry that I was ungracious. I thank you, and I am only too glad to accept your kind service,” she said, earnestly.
“That is well. Now, will you help me carry in the breakfast?”
Unreality was not unusual to Adam. The desert had as many unrealities, illusions, and specters as it had natural and tangible things. But while he sat opposite to this fascinating woman, whose garments exuded some subtle fragrance of perfume, whose shadowed, beautiful face shone like a cameo against the drab wall of the brush shack, he was hard put to it to convince himself of actuality. She ate daintily, but she was hungry. The gray gown fell in graceful folds around the low stone seat. The rude table between them was a box, narrow and uneven.