He had walked on country roads with John Telfer and
Mary Underwood, listening to their talk, absorbing their ideas, blind and
deaf to the little life in the grass, in the leafy branches of the trees
and in the air about him. In clubs, and about hotels and barrooms in the
city, he had heard men talk of life in the open, and had said to himself,
"When my time comes I will taste these things."
And now he did taste them, lying on his back on the grass along the river,
floating down quiet little side streams in the moonlight, listening to the
night call of birds, or watching the flight of frightened wild things as
he pushed the canoe into the quiet depths of the great forest about them.
At night, under the little tent they had brought, or beneath the blankets
under the stars, he slept lightly, awakening often to look at Sue lying
beside him. Perhaps the wind had blown a wisp of hair across her face and
her breath played with it, tossing it about; perhaps just the quiet of her
expressive little face charmed and held him, so that he turned reluctantly
to sleep again thinking that he might, with pleasure, go on looking at her
all night.
For Sue the days also passed lightly. She also awoke in the night and lay
looking at the man sleeping beside her, and once she told Sam that when he
awoke she feigned sleep dreading to rob him of the pleasure that she knew
these secret love passages gave to both.
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