In Philip's present enfeebled condition of body and spirit the temptation was severe; setting aside the pleasant prospect of creature comforts, food properly prepared (his own cook was woefully careless) there would be—Stella! He strove to hold on to the arguments that at the moment of Colonel Crayfield's arrival were in process of bracing his will and his judgment; now they were slipping away—if only time could be gained in which he might call them to heel, summon strength to refuse with firmness....
He stirred uneasily: "It's exceedingly kind of you, sir, but I couldn't think of giving you and Mrs. Crayfield the trouble. I'm not really ill; to-morrow I shall be as fit as ever again. It's nothing but an ordinary go of malaria."
He felt he was gabbling what his chief would regard as merely conventional protests; even to himself they sounded futile, unreal.
"Rubbish!" the ejaculation was no more than he might have anticipated. "Don't be an ass. Give me a bit of paper and a pencil and I'll send word to my wife. The tonga can be here in two shakes, and I'll wait and go back with you myself."
He began to shout orders. The groom was to return with his horse and the note. Philip's personal servant was bidden to produce paper and a pencil, moreover to pack a portmanteau with his master's requirements. In a few moments the whole matter had passed from Philip's control, and he resigned himself to Fate. But what irony that Stella's husband, of all people, should be the means of forcing him into a position that, unless Fate proved unnaturally considerate, might lead right and left to disaster!
CHAPTER XII
"Oh, do go on—don't stop. I shall be miserable till I know what John Holland and Anne decided."