joy, in happiness; when her cheeks flushed and her narrow eyes flamed.
"You don't believe that," she said suddenly.
"What does it matter what I believe? The grapes are sour—that's what it amounts to. I told you I had not got what I wanted."
"Ah, it was that, then," she murmured.
They were silent. The wood was silent, too, except for the rush of the stream, up the bank of which the road mounted steeply. Crayven walked with long, easy strides, and Teresa was always conscious that he was subduing his pace to hers. Mentally, too, he always seemed to be taking her pace, and not his own natural gait. He seemed to be following her, waiting on her mood, watching her. He had no need, apparently, of expressing himself—the essentially masculine need, Teresa had always considered it. She often found herself wondering what he was really like—for example, what woman counted in his life. It was not his wife, she was sure of that. Was it, perhaps, some Eastern woman, someone behind the veil? She had tried, but Crayven was not to be drawn on that point. His reserve irritated her, especially as he plainly wanted to find out all he could about herself. But just now he had said something that broke that reserve. She took it seriously, and glanced even timidly at his face. He met her with a long, grave look, which seemed to weigh her somehow.
