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“You said it was a deer trail a while ago,” I hinted, and Herman laughed.

It was still and warm in the glade; the needles lay thick and soft and no grass grew. The scent of the yerba buena stole upon us intermittently, delicate pungent gusts answering each to each like speech. All around the sunlight lay, a thing palpable, as if, like the needles, it had not been lifted for a thousand years, but mellowed there like wine. Herman stretched himself on the brown thick litter beside me.

“Aha,” he said, “if this belongs to your wood people they know a good thing. It’s very nice of them to lend it to us for a while. I don’t seem to feel any pricks between my shoulders, but my heart beats remarkably; so don’t give me up yet, Mona.”

That was exactly like Herman, to argue with your best beliefs until you begin to think there is no other way than to subvert your whole scheme of existence, or to break off all connection with him. And then he abandons his position with a suddenness that leaves you toppling over your own defenses.