"And if it came to a close bargain," he said, "I wouldn't hold out for
the mountain. I'm ready to quit--and it's too late."
Which, after a little, brought Philip Curtis to tell so much as he knew
of the story of Peter God. Philip's voice was tuned with the winds and
the forests. It rose above the low and monotonous hum about them. People
at the two or three adjoining tables might have heard his story, if they
had listened. Within the immaculateness of his evening dress, Barrows
shivered, fearing that Curtis' voice might attract undue attention to
them. But other people were absorbed in themselves. Philip went on with
his story, and at last, so clearly that it reached easily to the other
tables, he spoke the name of Peter God.
Then came the interruption, and with that interruption a strange and
sudden upheaval in the life of Philip Curtis that was to mean more to him
than the discovery of the mica mountain. His eyes swept over Barrow's
shoulder, and there he saw a woman. She was standing. A low, stifled cry
had broken from her almost simultaneously with his first glimpse of her,
and as he looked, Philip saw her lips form gaspingly the name he had
spoken--Peter God!
She was so near that Barrow could have turned and touched her. Her eyes
were like luminous fires as she stared at Philip. Her face was strangely
pale. He could see her quiver, and catch her breath. And she was looking
at him.
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