wood and come out into the Champs de Barmaz, a field shut in by a sheer wall of rocks on one side and on the other sloping up to the foot of the high peaks.
"Sit down a minute—you look pale and tired," said Crayven, gently. "I'll bring you some gentians."
He went off to a great patch of snow lying at the edge of the Champs, and Teresa watched his alert, strong figure with a curious feeling of disenchantment. So this was the reason of his interest in her—a fancied resemblance to a boyish love! He had said she would not like it—and she did not like it. Her vanity was hurt, and she felt suddenly remote from him, bored, and thought of Basil. Why had she buried herself here? At least with Basil one lived. Her quarrel with him appeared absurd. How foolish, in a world of such mischances and maladjustments, to throw away a day of happiness! Who knew what the next day might bring forth? Who knew what change there might be in Basil, when she saw him again? His letters indicated no change, but what were letters after all? They said only what one wanted them to say. She felt a sudden hatred of the casual, the meaningless, in human relations. Why waste time on people who, after all, counted for nothing? There was only one person who really counted to her, Basil. Why not allow, once for all, for a
