The boots grinned. “That all?”

“No; take his temperature, and send for a doctor. Look here, sir,” the young man turned to Wilfrid, “I recommend this chap. He can polish boots with the best. Just let him do for you, and don’t worry. I must get on. It’s six o’clock.” He waited a moment, watching Wilfrid stagger into the hotel on the arm of the ‘boots,’ then sped away.

The ‘boots’ assisted Wilfrid to a room. “Can you undress, governor?”

“Yes,” muttered Wilfrid.

“Then I’ll go and get you that bottle and the coffee. Don’t be afraid, we don’t ‘ave damp beds ’ere. Were you out all night?”

Wilfrid sat on the bed and did not answer.

“‘Ere!” said the ‘boots’: “give us your sleeves!” He pulled Wilfrid’s coat off, then his waistcoat and trousers. “You’ve got a proper chill, it seems to me. Your underthings are all damp. Can you stand?”

Wilfrid shook his head.

The ‘boots’ stripped the sheets off the bed, pulled Wilfrid’s shirt over his head; then with a struggle wrenched off vest and drawers, and wrapped him in a blanket.

“Now, governor, a good pull and a pull altogether.” He forced Wilfrid’s head on to the pillow, heaved his legs on to the bed, and covered him with two more blankets.

“You lie there; I won’t be gone ten minutes.”

Wilfrid lay, shivering so that his thoughts would not join up, nor his lips make consecutive sounds owing to the violent chattering of his teeth. He became conscious of a chambermaid, then of voices.

“His teeth’ll break it. Isn’t there another place?”

“I’ll try under his arm.”

A thermometer was pressed under his arm and held there.

“You haven’t got yellow fever, have you, sir?”

Wilfrid shook his head.

“Can you raise yourself, governor, and drink this?”

Robust arms raised him, and he drank.

“One ‘undred and four.”

“Gawd! ‘Ere, pop this bottle to his feet, I’ll ‘phone the Doc.”

Wilfrid could see the maid watching him, as if wondering what sort of fever she was going to catch.

“Malaria,” he said, suddenly, “not infectious. Give me a cigarette! In my waistcoat.”

The maid put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. Wilfrid took a long pull.

“A-again!” he said.

Again she put it between his lips, and again he took a pull.

“They say there’s mosquitoes in the forest. Did you find any last night, sir?”

“In the sys-system.”

Shivering a little less now, he watched her moving about the room, collecting his clothes, drawing the curtains so that they shaded the bed. Then she approached him, and he smiled up at her.

“Another nice drop of hot coffee?”

He shook his head, closed his eyes again, and shivered deep into the bed, conscious that she was still watching him, and then again of voices.

“Can’t find a name, but he’s some sort of nob. There’s money and this letter in his coat. The doctor’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Well, I’ll wait till then, but I’ve got my work to do.”

“Same ’ere. Tell the missus when you call her.”

He saw the maid stand looking at him with a sort of awe. A stranger and a nob, with a curious disease, interesting to a simple mind. Of his face, pressed into the pillow, she couldn’t see much– one dark cheek, one ear, some hair, the screwed-up eye under the brow. He felt her touch his forehead timidly with a finger. Burning hot, of course!

“Would you like your friends written to, sir?”

He shook his head.

“The doctor’ll be here in a minute.”

“I’ll be like this two days—nothing to be done—quinine—orange juice—” Seized by a violent fit of shivering, he was silent. He saw the doctor come in; and the maid still leaning against the chest of drawers, biting her little finger. She took it from her mouth, and he heard her say: “Shall I stay, sir?”

“Yes, you can stay.”

The doctor’s fingers closed on his pulse, raised his eyelid, pushed his lips apart.

“Well, sir? Had much of this?”

Wilfrid nodded.

“All right! You’ll stay where you are, and shove in quinine, and that’s all I can do for you. Pretty sharp bout.”

Wilfrid nodded.

“There are no cards on you. What’s your name?”

Wilfrid shook his head.

“All right! Don’t worry! Take this.”

CHAPTER 30

Stepping from an omnibus, Dinny walked into the large of Wimbledon Common. After a nearly sleepless night, she had slipped out, leaving a note to say she would be away all day. She hurried over the grass into a birch grove, and lay down. The high moving clouds, the sunlight striking in and out of the birch-tree branches, the water wagtails, the little dry patches of sand, and that stout wood-pigeon, undismayed by her motionless figure, brought her neither peace nor the inclination to think of Nature. She lay on her back, quivering and dry-eyed, wondering for whose inscrutable delight she was thus suffering. The stricken do not look for outside help, they seek within. To go about exuding tragedy was abhorrent to her. She would not do that! But the sweetness of the wind, the moving clouds, the rustle of the breeze, the sound of children’s voices, brought no hint of how she was to disguise herself and face life afresh. The isolation in which she had been ever since the meeting with Wilfrid under Foch’s statue now showed nakedly. All her eggs had been in one basket, and the basket had fallen. She dug with her fingers at the sandy earth; and a dog, seeing a hole, came up and sniffed it. She had begun to live, and now she was dead. “No flowers by request!”

So sharp had been her realisation of finality yesterday evening that she did not even consider the possibility of tying up the broken thread. If he had pride, so had she! Not the same sort, but as deep in her marrow. No one had any real need of her! Why not go away? She had nearly three hundred pounds. The notion gave her neither exhilaration nor any real relief; but it would save her from making herself a nuisance to those who would expect her to be her old cheerful self. She thought of the hours she had spent with Wilfrid in places like this. So sharp was her memory that she had to cover her lips to prevent anguish welling out of them. Until she met him she had never felt alone. And now—she WAS alone! Chill, terrifying, endless! Remembering how she had found swift motion good for heartache, she got up and crossed the road where the Sunday stream of cars was already flowing out of town. Uncle Hilary had once exhorted her not to lose her sense of humour. But had she ever had one? At the end of Barnes Common she climbed on to a ‘bus and went back to London. She must have something to eat, or she would be fainting. She got down near Kensington Gardens and went into an hotel.

After lunch she sat some time in the Gardens, and then walked to Mount Street. No one was in, and she sank down on the sofa in the drawing-room. Thoroughly exhausted, she fell asleep. Her aunt’s entrance woke her, and, sitting up, she said:

“You can all be happy about me, Aunt Em. It’s finished.”

Lady Mont stared at her niece sitting there with such a ghostly little smile, and two tears, starting not quite together, ran down her cheeks.

“I didn’t know you cried at funerals, too, Aunt Em.”

She got up, went over to her aunt, and with her handkerchief removed the marks the tears had made.

“There!”

Lady Mont got up. “I MUST howl,” she said, “I simply must.” And she swayed rapidly out of the room.

Dinny sat on, that ghost of a smile still on her face. Blore brought in the tea-things, and she talked to him of Wimbledon, and his wife. He did not seem to know which of the two was in worse shape, but, as he was going out, he turned and said:

“And if I might suggest, Miss Dinny, a little sea air for you.”

“Yes, Blore, I was thinking of it.”

“I’m glad, miss; one overdoes it at this time of year.”