She gave her donkey a sharp cut with a switch and started forward.  The full and romantic career of Evelyn Murgatroyd is best hit off by her own words, “Call me Evelyn and I’ll call you St. John.”  She said that on very slight provocation—­her surname was enough—­but although a great many young men had answered her already with considerable spirit she went on saying it and making choice of none.  But her donkey stumbled to a jog-trot, and she had to ride in advance alone, for the path when it began to ascend one of the spines of the hill became narrow and scattered with stones.  The cavalcade wound on like a jointed caterpillar, tufted with the white parasols of the ladies, and the panama hats of the gentlemen.  At one point where the ground rose sharply, Evelyn M. jumped off, threw her reins to the native boy, and adjured St. John Hirst to dismount too.  Their example was followed by those who felt the need of stretching.

“I don’t see any need to get off,” said Miss Allan to Mrs. Elliot just behind her, “considering the difficulty I had getting on.”

“These little donkeys stand anything, n’est-ce pas?” Mrs. Elliot addressed the guide, who obligingly bowed his head.

“Flowers,” said Helen, stooping to pick the lovely little bright flowers which grew separately here and there.  “You pinch their leaves and then they smell,” she said, laying one on Miss Allan’s knee.

“Haven’t we met before?” asked Miss Allan, looking at her.

“I was taking it for granted,” Helen laughed, for in the confusion of meeting they had not been introduced.

“How sensible!” chirped Mrs. Elliot.  “That’s just what one would always like—­only unfortunately it’s not possible.”  “Not possible?” said Helen.  “Everything’s possible.  Who knows what mayn’t happen before night-fall?” she continued, mocking the poor lady’s timidity, who depended implicitly upon one thing following another that the mere glimpse of a world where dinner could be disregarded, or the table moved one inch from its accustomed place, filled her with fears for her own stability.

Higher and higher they went, becoming separated from the world.  The world, when they turned to look back, flattened itself out, and was marked with squares of thin green and grey.

“Towns are very small,” Rachel remarked, obscuring the whole of Santa Marina and its suburbs with one hand.  The sea filled in all the angles of the coast smoothly, breaking in a white frill, and here and there ships were set firmly in the blue.  The sea was stained with purple and green blots, and there was a glittering line upon the rim where it met the sky.  The air was very clear and silent save for the sharp noise of grasshoppers and the hum of bees, which sounded loud in the ear as they shot past and vanished.  The party halted and sat for a time in a quarry on the hillside.

“Amazingly clear,” exclaimed St. John, identifying one cleft in the land after another.