"I must have a change," she began volubly; "I can't stand the heat any longer. I believe I shall die if I don't get away from it. You can't think how awful I feel."
He looked at her in astonishment, with which concern, vexation, and a shade of indefinite suspicion were mingled.
"You want to go away? You know perfectly well I can't ask for leave with all this distress in the district, even if the rains break freely in the next few days."
"But I could go alone," she pleaded. "Mrs. Cuthell would have me, I know she would. I'd come down again directly I felt better. It isn't gaiety I want, only to feel better."
"Antonio must come and have a look at you. Perhaps——"
"No, no," cried Stella. "It's not that!" She almost wished it were, that she might have stronger excuse for flight. The idea even crossed her mind to feign doubt in order to gain her purpose, and though she dismissed it with horror she clung ignominiously to the straw that floated detached from definite deception.
"If I could only get strong," she hinted shamefacedly, "it might make a difference. I feel such a wreck, Robert. I'm so sorry, but I can't help it."
It was all true, she told herself wildly. She did feel a wreck; she was sure she would be seriously ill if she stayed on at Rassih, unless—unless Philip would go instead.
"Well, wait till this evening," said Robert, "and we'll see. I must be off now; Flint is waiting, and we've a long afternoon's work to get through." He advised her to rest, and kissed her in kindly, if perfunctory, farewell.
When he had gone, Philip with him, a hot muggy silence descended upon the premises. The servants went off to their quarters in the compound for the customary midday meal and sleep, save for a couple of peons on duty who snoozed in the front veranda, and the ever present shift of punkah pullers. Since the downpour of rain the west wind had ceased to roar and rage over the land; Nature seemed motionless, as though waiting in patient expectance for the swollen clouds to discharge their burden of water.