“I don’t care what anybody says, or thinks; I repeat it”—­she glanced from the straw mat to the cake of anemic pink soap—­“my wildest dreams are surpassed.  To think”—­she spread out her hands—­“only to think of finding a tooth glass here!  It’s—­it’s admirable!”

She turned upon him an almost fanatical eye, daring contradiction; and they both laughed again, long and loud like two children who, suddenly aware of a keen physical pleasure, prolong it beyond all reasonable bounds.

“What are we going to have for tea?” she asked.

“Tea,” Dion cried.

“You ridiculous creature!”

From a short distance, Achilles gazed upon the merriment of theses newly-married English travelers.  Nobody had told him they were newly married; he just knew it, had known it at a glance.  As he watched, the laughter presently died away, and he saw the two walk forward to the edge of the small plateau, then stand still to gaze at the view.

The prospect from the hill of Drouva above Olympia is very great, and all Rosamund’s inclination to merriment died out of her as she looked upon it.  Even her joy in the camp was forgotten for a moment.

Upon their plateau, sole guests of the bareness, stood two small olive trees, not distorted by winds.  Rosamund leaned against one of them as she gazed, put her arms round it with a sort of affectionate carelessness that was half-protective, that seemed to say, “You dear little tree!  How nice of you to be here.  But you almost want taking care of.”  Then the tree was forgotten, and the Hellenic beauty reigned over her spirit, as she gazed upon the immense pastoral bounded by mountains and the sea; a green wilderness threaded by a serpentine river of silver—­a far-flung river which lingered on its way, journeying hither and thither, making great curves as if it loved the wilderness and wished to know it well, to know all of it before being merged irrevocably with the sea.

“Those are the valleys of the Kladeos and the Alpheios.”

“Yes.”

“And that far-off Isle is the Island of Zante.”

“Of Zante,” she repeated.

After a long pause she said: 

“You know those words somewhere in the Bible—­’the wilderness and the solitary places’?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always loved them, just those words.  Even when I was quite a child I liked to say them.  And I remember once, when I was staying at Sherrington, we drove over to the cathedral.  Canon Wilton took us into the stalls.  It was a week-day and there were very few people.  The anthem was Wesley’s ‘The Wilderness.’  I had never heard it before, and when I heard those words—­my words—­being sung, I had such a queer thrill.  I wanted to cry and I was startled.  To most people, I suppose, the word wilderness suggests something dreary and parched, ugly desolation.”

“Yes.  The scapegoat was driven out into the wilderness.”

“I think I’d rather take my sin into the wilderness than anywhere else.  Purification might be found there.”