The fever took its normal course. The Captain needed very little attention. Ruth gave him his medicine, tidied his bed, took his temperature, and saw to his food.
He lay in a fog, amused with her, angry with himself.
"You're top-hole at this job, Ruth," he would say.
On the third night, in the small hours, he rang. The bell was on a chair at Ruth's side. She rose at once. The dressing-gown in which she wrapped herself was a flimsy affair, and showed the lines of her large young body. The light beside the Captain's bed was switched on.
"Ruth," he said, "I'm better. I've broken out in a muck-sweat. I'm dripping. Get me some fresh pyjamas and a towel."
His face was shining with perspiration, his hair dark.
She went to a drawer.
"Bring me a towel," he said. "And give me a rub down."
She obeyed and clothed him in his new pyjamas.
He lay back, dry and contented.