Sometimes Archie made a third on these expeditions; for he had developed a great enthusiasm for Joan's famous friend, and occasionally neglected business to sit at the feet of wisdom. Not often, however. Business had reached a point where it declined to be neglected (the depression of 1913 was at hand); and besides Archie, despite their affectionate welcome, felt rather _de trop_ with the pair. "I'm no high-brow, and there's no use pretending I am," he confessed once to Emily Carmichael. "But that don't keep me from appreciating high-brows when I see 'em. It's as good as a correspondence-course in literature to hear those two go on. I'm as much out of it, though, as if they were talkin' the French language--which they sometimes are, at that!" "Archie," asked Emily, hesitating, "are you never the least little bit--jealous?" Her friendship for Joan was too unquestionable for the remark to sound feline. He laughed. "Me jealous? What for? I've got her, haven't I? And he hasn't, poor chap! Glad to share what I can." It happened that at the same time this conversation occurred--it was a chance meeting down town, and Archie, always the soul of hospitality, had invited Emily to join him in a cup of hot clam-broth at a soda-fountain--that the pair on the hilltop were not indulging in either literature or the French language. Joan, ensconced upon a bed of leaves with her back against the sheltering cliff and her face warm with fireglow, remarked dreamily: "Stefan, how have I ever managed to live here so long without you?" His smile did not reach his eyes; those beautiful, speaking, somber eyes which reflected in them so much of the history of his race. He said, "And how shall you manage when I am gone again?" She turned quickly to look at him. Something in his voice troubled her. "Gone--Why, Stefan, you're not thinking of going soon?" "My book has made great progress here. It is a pleasant place for writing--I have nearly finished." She gave an exclamation of something like anger. "You said you were going to stay 'as long as possible.' And after all it was only to finish another book!" "Not quite 'only,' Joan." "Then," she demanded impatiently, "why do you talk about going? I am still here, whether the book is done or not! Are you tired of me already?" "What do you think?" "Have you become such a gipsy that you can't stop anywhere more than a few months?" "I wish," he said soberly, "that I might put my roots into this hillside like a tree, and never, never stir again, except to the winds, and the sap in my branches, and the seasons as they come and go--" "And me beside thee singing in the wilderness?" she smiled, as he did not continue. "Say you'd need me here somewhere, even if you were a tree!" "Every tree has one bird who lives in its branches. I should keep a nest safe for you, my dear--you and your Archie." He broke off. "But I am not a tree, merely a Wandering Jew to whom the time must come again to wander."