"No," she thought, "not even the closest of daily relationships with him
could ever make me really care. He is not of my life." She wondered how
much she would sacrifice for him if it were necessary in their
pilgrimage toward civilization, and she answered herself, frankly: "No
more than I must to maintain a balance in our forced business
partnership." She knew that was all this meant to her.

From down the ravine she heard him shouting lustily, and she answered,
her clear, rich voice waking pleasant echoes as she called. She waited
for some time before he came. In his arms he carried a bundle of
branches loaded with red berries, while in one hand was a clump of large
mushrooms.

Claire watched him as he approached, and was surprised at the ease with
which he walked. There was less hesitation in his stride than she had
thought, and he came briskly through the trees, dodging as though by
instinct.

When he reached the rock, it was characteristic of her that she said:
"You came through those trees remarkably well."

He laughed. "I have an uncanny way of feeling things on my face before
they touch me. I experimented somewhat with it in the laboratory at
college. It's a sort of tropism, perhaps, such as bugs have, that
enables them to keep between two planks or that turns plant-roots toward
the sun. Anyway, I've brought some breakfast. These berries may be good,
and these other things may be toadstools. I brought them along."

"How does one tell?" she asked.

"Oh, mushrooms are pink underneath and ribbed like a fan."

She examined them and said they might be mushrooms, they looked it. He
sat down again, but not until he had replenished the fire.

"They may be poison, both of them," he hazarded. "That's our sporting
chance. Will you try them?"

Claire took some of the berries and ate them. "I don't feel anything
yet," she announced after a minute's solemn munching.

"Oh, you probably won't for several hours anyway," he said lightly. Then
he continued: "If we could devise a way, we might heat water and cook
the mushrooms. Then, too, I've been thinking we might even catch a
bird."

"Neither sounds very simple."

"Nothing in life is simple," he replied. "At home, in America, where we
leave food-getting to the farmer, dress from a store, and go to heaven
by way of a minister, things are fairly well arranged, but here we
aren't even sure of salvation unless we mind the business of thinking."
He continued after a