handles that German language of horses! What a singing quality in that
"'Myrten und Resede
Von süssen Lippen und bittrer Rede …'
He knew the touch of sweet lips and of bitter herbs! … I feel like singing myself."
"Do," said Crayven gravely.
"Not going up a hill like this! Immer zu, immer zu, ohne Rast und Ruh!"
She led the way, breathless, and Crayven followed, taking one long step to her two. The sun was hot on the face of the rock, but when they reached the top and Teresa sank down, panting and smiling, by the roadside, a cool wind met them, a rollicking wind fresh from the snows. She took off her hat and lifted her face to drink it in.
"Put on your sweater, or you'll take cold," said Crayven, standing before her with his hands in his pockets and looking suddenly stolid and British.
She laughed.
"How odd—when you give an order I see you are a real Englishman! Or, perhaps, it was the poetry I quoted, was it? … Don't mind me; this day, this air, has gone to my head! I must laugh—at you, at anything, at nothing!"
"Well, laugh, but put on your sweater. I hate women with colds in their heads."
