And she, seeing his haggard eyes, his drawn face, knew that she had been unjust last night when she had hated him for seeming a soulless man, who could smoke his pipe in all serenity and feel nothing of the unhappiness of the night. He did not look like the Mark King of yesterday; the glad gleam of joy had died in his eyes; the quick resiliency had gone out of his step. He, too, had lived through slow hours of torture. He did love her--she could never doubt that---Had he suddenly caught her to him then, had he crushed her close in his arms, had he cried out in headlong passion that she must love him, that he would make her love him, that she was his, that he would not give her up--would she have wrenched away from him, hot with anger--or would she have crept close and known at last whether or not she loved him? But here was something else she could not know; he turned and went off for his wood; she crouched shivering by the fire.
They breakfasted in silence, the fire between them. Neither did much more than drink the strong coffee. Gloria sat tossing bits of bread into the fire. It was on his lips to tell her not to do that; waste in the wilderness is a crime. But he held his words back. He went methodically about camp work; cleaned the plates and cups and pans; remade the two packs. All this time she did not stir. At last he came back to her and stood by the dying fire, ominously silent. She grew nervously restive, wishing that he would say something.
"There's a day's work to be done," he said at last. His voice, meant to be impersonal, was only stern. "That means an early start. And--"
"Is it very much further to the caves?" she asked.
He had paused; she had to say something.
"It will take a long day getting there. You see, we didn't come very far yesterday."
This, she supposed, was a fling at her, and she stiffened under it. But when she spoke it was to ignore the innuendo, intended or not. For, wherever they might be led, she hoped it would not be into sordid quarrelling.
"It begins to be rather obvious that I should not have come. Doesn't it?" she asked.
"Well?"
"Now, if I turn back----"
"To the house?"
"And then to mamma and papa, in Coloma. And then to San Francisco."