The contest was now carried on between Rowland and Darrell. She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. Clean water. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. I don’t mind it. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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