On the clay lands they
are gone, of course. But they are still left on the grazing land,
because it does not pay the Food Company to remove them. I know
that--for certain. Besides, one sees them from the flying machines, you
know. Well, we might shelter in some one of these, and repair it with
our hands. Do you know, the thing is not so wild as it seems. Some of
the men who go out every day to look after the crops and herds might be
paid to bring us food...."

She stood in front of him. "How strange it would be if one really
could...."

"Why not?"

"But no one dares."

"That is no reason."

"It would be--oh! it would be so romantic and strange. If only it were
possible."

"Why not possible?"

"There are so many things. Think of all the things we have, things that
we should miss."

"Should we miss them? After all, the life we lead is very unreal--very
artificial." He began to expand his idea, and as he warmed to his
exposition the fantastic quality of his first proposal faded away.

She thought. "But I have heard of prowlers--escaped criminals."

He nodded. He hesitated over his answer because he thought it sounded
boyish. He blushed. "I could get some one I know to make me a sword."

She looked at him with enthusiasm growing in her eyes. She had heard of
swords, had seen one in a museum; she thought of those ancient days when
men wore them as a common thing. His suggestion seemed an impossible
dream to her, and perhaps for that reason she was eager for more detail.
And inventing for the most part as he went along, he told her, how they
might live in the country as the old-world people had done. With every
detail her interest grew, for she was one of those girls for whom
romance and adventure have a fascination.

His suggestion seemed, I say, an impossible dream to her on that day,
but the next day they talked about it again, and it was strangely less
impossible.

"At first we should take food," said Denton. "We could carry food for
ten or twelve days." It was an age of compact artificial nourishment,
and such a provision had none of the unwieldy suggestion it would have
had in the nineteenth century.

"But--until our house," she asked--"until it was ready, where should we
sleep?"

"It is summer."

"But ... What do you mean?"

"There was a time when there were no houses in the world; when all
mankind slept always in the open air."

"But for us! The emptiness! No walls--no ceiling!"

"Dear," h