Pearl did not notice his evasion; she was not interested in his view of
the mountains. What she instinctively resented, even in her dulled
state, was his impersonal attitude toward herself. She was not used to
it from any man. She did not understand it. She wondered, without any
particular interest in the matter, but still following her instinctive
and customary mode of thought, if he had not noticed that she was
beautiful. Was he so stupid that he did not think her so? But there was
no hint in his manner or look in his eyes of an intention on his part of
playing the inevitable game, even a remembrance of it seemed as lacking
as desire. The game of challenge and elusion on her part, of perpetual
and ever more ardent advance on his. He was interested, she knew that,
but, as she felt with a surge of surprise, not in the way she had always
encountered and had learned to expect.

"Isn't it strange," she realized that he was speaking again, "that I
haven't been drawn to the desert, because so many have had to turn to
it? I have only seen it from traveling across it, and then it repelled
me, perhaps it frightened me." He seemed to consider this.

For the moment Pearl forgot the inevitable game. "Frightened you!" she
cried. "It is the mountains that frighten me; but the desert is always
different. It--" she struggled for expression, "it is always you."

Something in this seemed to strike him. "Perhaps I have that to learn."
Again he meditated a few moments, then looked up with a smile. "You must
tell me all that you find in the desert and I will tell you all that I
find in the mountains. It will be jolly to talk to a woman again." He
spoke with a satisfaction thoroughly genuine.

She glanced at him suspiciously. She was uncertain how to meet this