She felt ashamed of her eagerness.

She had a guilty conscience that no strange thrills could silence.

It would be fun to see him, to watch him, to let him wait for her, to fool him.
Like an Indian, she chose the soft pine-needle mats to tread upon, and her light-moccasined feet left no trace.

Like an Indian also she made a wide detour, and reached the Rim a quarter of a mile west of the spot where she had talked with Jean Isbel; and here, turning east, she took care to step on the bare stones.

This was an adventure, seemingly the first she had ever had in her life.