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.”

“And I?”

“If you would go with me as far as the house——­”

She saw how his body straightened, how his broad shoulders squared.  There was something eloquent in the gesture; Mark King, with no toleration of a clutter of side issues, came straight to the main barrier, which must be swept aside for good and all, or which must be skirted and so passed and relegated to the limbo of dead hopes.

“Do you love me, Gloria?” he demanded.  “As lovers love?  As I have loved you?  As a wife should love her husband?”

“Didn’t I explain all of that last night?” she said petulantly.  “Must we go over it all again?  If I have ... have pained you, I am sorry.  I can’t say any more than that, can I?  I thought I made you see how I was placed, how there was but the one thing for me to do....”

“Marry Gratton or me?  And you chose me?”

She hesitated.  She knew that he was angry, though he gave so little outward sign.  Nor did she fail to recognize that he had grounds for anger.  But none the less she resented his insistent questionings.  She stood looking blankly at him.  If she had only obeyed her straightforward impulse at the house to go to him and explain her predicament!