But far be it from us to steal the professor's thunder.

We are not writing a book upon primitive psychology.

We are interested only in the sigh of pleasurable satisfaction with which the professor's secretary closed her fat note-book and called it a day.
From that point our interest leads us back to camp along the trail through the warm June woods with the late sunlight hanging like golden gauze behind the fretted screens of green.

We are interested in sunsets and in basket suppers eaten in the dim coolness of a miniature canyon through which rushed and tumbled an icy stream from, the snow peaks far above.

We are interested in a breathless race with a chattering squirrel during which Desire's hair came down--a bit of glorious autumn in the deep green wood--and the tying of it up again (a lengthy process) by the professor with cleverly plaited stems of tender bracken.