CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. “This has all the clean freshness of spring and youth,” said Capes; “it is love with the down on; it is like the glitter of dew in the sunlight to be lovers such as we are, with no more than one warm kiss between us. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. He lost control of the machine. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired.
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