"A wedding breakfast," Androvsky said.
"Yes. But perhaps you have never been to one."
"Never."
"Then you can't love this one as much as I do."
"Much more," he answered.
She looked at him, remembering how often in the past, when she had been
feeling intensely, she had it borne in upon her that he was feeling even
more intensely than herself. But could that be possible now?
"Do you think," she said, "that it is possible for you, who have never
lived in cities, to love this land as I love it?"
Androvsky moved on his cushion and leaned down till his elbow touched
the sand. Lying thus, with his chin in his hand, and his eyes fixed upon
her, he answered:
"But it is not the land I am loving."
His absolute concentration upon her made her think that, perhaps, he
misunderstood her meaning in speaking of the desert, her joy in it.
She longed to explain how he and the desert were linked together in
her heart, and she dropped her hand upon his left hand, which lay palm
downwards in the warm sand.
"I love this land," she began, "because I found you in it, because I
feel----"
She stopped.
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