The man strides; the boy walks fast, gladly half-runs, proud to keep up. They reach the top in no time. When they get there, they do not stop, as most walkers there do, to take in the view, the purple sweep of the plain towards the blue wall of mountains beyond. They keep going, and the boy is asking, 'Is it one of those tents where you don't have to use pegs?'
     Halfway down the next incline a thought suddenly occurs to the boy. He slows briefly, arrested. 'Dad, hey, do you think that horse wanted something to eat?'
     'Maybe,' says the man, cheerfully, dismissively, having to call because the boy has fallen behind.
     The boy puts his concentration into keeping abreast. "Do you prefer Orange Pekoe or English Breakfast?" Sam said, inspecting the basket of teabags that the waiter had left with them. "I don't mind between those two, but I'm not having the Earl Grey. I hate that stuff, what is it, bergamot or something. It tastes like mothballs."
     "They should've brought us two smaller pots," said Helen. "Then we each could've chosen."
     "That抯 true. But we've got one big pot, so we'll have to agree somehow. That's the way it is, being in a couple. You have to compromise, so you can share."
Ten minutes later, when the ponies reach the brow, heading in for the night, there is no sign on the plain of the man and the boy. Too purposeful to loiter, too focused on their goal to stop and gaze at the still black mirror of lake, man and boy have crossed the tract of land and are gone.