"You have already tried it," he said. "I can see the effects of it
in your face. It would take weeks in the forests to do that."
The gray eyes faltered; the flush deepened.
"Yes, I have tried it. I spent a half of the summer at our cottage
on the lake."
"But it is not tan," he persisted, thrilled for a moment by the
discoveries he was making. "It is the wind; it is the open; it is
the smoke of camp-fires; it is the elixir of balsam and cedar and
pine. That is what I see in your face--unless it is the fire."
"It is the fire, partly," she said. "And the rest is the wind and
the open of the seas we have come across, and the sting of
icebergs. Ugh: my face feels like nettles!"
She rubbed her cheeks with her two hands, and then held up one
hand to Philip.
"Look," she said. "It's as rough as sand-paper. Isn't that a
change? I didn't even wear gloves on the ship. I'm an enthusiast.
I'm going down there with you, and I'm going to fight. Now have
you got anything to say against me, Mr. Philip?"
There was a lightness in her words, and yet not in her voice. In
her manner was an uneasiness, mingled with an almost childish
eagerness for him to answer, which Philip could not understand.
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