Denis repeated:
"Sanidin?"
"Let's have a look at it then," said Marten condescendingly, "though I
can't say I'm in a geological temper this morning. The south wind seems
to rot one's intelligence somehow. Hand it here. Sanidin be blowed!
It's specular iron. Now I wonder why you should hit upon sanidin? Why?"
He, too, did not pause for a reply. He turned his glance once more down
the steep hill-side which they had climbed with a view to exploring
some instructive exposure of the rock. Marten intended to utilize the
site as a text for a lay sermon. Arrived on the spot they had sat down.
As if by common consent, geology was forgotten. To outward appearances
they were absorbed in the beauties of nature. Sirocco mists rose
upwards, clustering thickly overhead and rolling in billowy formations
among the dales. Sometimes a breath of wind would convulse their ranks,
causing them to trail in long silvery pennants across the sky and,
opening a rift in their gossamer texture, would reveal, far down below,
a glimmer of olives shining in the sunlight or a patch of blue sea,
framed in an aureole of peacock hues.
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