“You play polo, of course?  Tell me you do.”

“You know perfectly well I don’t—­”

“But you’ll try if I ask you?”

He still held her hand imprisoned—­that fragrant, listless little hand, so lifeless, nerveless, unresponsive—­as though it were no longer a part of her and she had forgotten it.

“I’ll do anything you wish,” he said slowly.

“Then don’t eat any of these mulberries until you are acclimated.  I’m sorry; they are so delicious.  But I won’t eat any more, either.”

“Nonsense,” he said, bending down a heavily laden bough for her.  “Eat! daughter of Eve!  This fruit is highly recommended.”

“Oh, Garry!  I’m not such a pig as that!...  Well, then; if you make me do it—­”

She lifted her face among the tender leaves, detached a luscious berry with her lips, absorbed it reflectively, and shook her head with decision.

The shadow of constraint was fast slipping from them both.

“You know you enjoy it,” he insisted, laughing naturally.

“No, I don’t enjoy it at all,” she retorted indignantly.  “I’ll not taste another until you are ready to do your part....  I’ve forgotten, Garry; did the serpent eat the fruit he recommended?”

“He was too wise, not being acclimated in Eden.”

She turned in her saddle, laughing, and sat looking down at him—­then, more gravely, at her ungloved hand which he still retained in both of his.

Silence fell, and found them ready for it.

For a long while they said nothing; she slipped one leg over the pommel and sat sideways, elbow on knee, chin propped in her gloved hand.  At times her eyes wandered over the sunny clearing, but always reverted to him where he stood leaning against her stirrup and looking up at her as though he never could look enough.

The faint, fresh perfume of China-berry was in the air, delicately persistent amid the heavy odours from tufts of orange flowers clinging to worn-out trees of the abandoned grove.

“Your own fragrance,” he said.

She looked down at him, dreamily.  He bent and touched with his face the hand he held imprisoned.

“There was once,” he said, “among the immortals a maid, Calypso....  Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she said slowly.  “I have not forgotten my only title to immortality.”

Their gaze met; then he stepped closer.

She raised both arms, crossing them to cover her eyes; his arms circled her, lifted her from the saddle, holding her a moment above the earth, free, glorious, superb in her vivid beauty; then he swung her to the ground, holding her embraced; and as she abandoned to him, one by one, her hands and mouth and throat, her gaze never left him—­clear, unfaltering eyes of a child innocent enough to look on passion unafraid—­fearless, confident eyes, wondering, worshipping in unison with the deepening adoration in his.