Her thoughts touched Ally with fonder appreciation in contrast. He was at the moment just riding leisurely up the winding road that led to Maitso,—a handsome fellow, and well contented with himself, and his wife with him. On his right rose the solid buildings of the Mess, and as the path swung over the hill, corkscrew-wise, the dotted barracks grouped themselves on either hand. It was like a town in itself, intersected with the irrepressible vegetation which broke out into guava and logwood brush even here. Maitso looked “greener” and more deserving of its name than it really was from the town; but as Captain Lewin rode up to the Churtons’ quarters, he passed through the slight screen of logwood, and was shielded from the setting sun.
“Come in, Ally. Bute’s somewhere at the Mess,” said Mrs. Churton, appearing on the stoep. “Where’s Chum?”
“She had a headache—said she was awfully sorry she didn’t feel up to coming. I’m glad she didn’t try, it was so hot riding up.”
“I’m sorry she couldn’t, though, as we shall be odd numbers. Poor old fellow! you are hot! Will you have a cého or whiskey?” Diana was hospitable.
Ally chose cého, but the whiskey followed, and when the Major appeared they had more, sitting out until dinner-time and talking in a desultory fashion, while they watched the sky darken behind the solemn fans of the ravenalas. How hot it was! Even up at Maitso the freshness seemed to have been melted from the sea breeze before it reached them, and the heavy air clung like a miasma. It was intoxicatingly sweet, but languid and enervating until the beads of sweat stood on the men’s temples without more exertion than their own vitality, and even Diana Churton gasped.
“By Jove! it’s been a swilling day!” Major Churton remarked, as he stretched his hand for the whiskey. “My throat feels like blotting-paper. Have some more, Lewin?”
“Thanks!”
There were no ladies present at dinner besides Di, but two men from Mitsinjovy dropped in, and presently they played Poker. Ally was one of the winners, but more by luck than judgment, for the heat—or something else—seemed to be making his head heavy. Twice he thought he got up to go, and then some one said the night was yet young, and his limbs felt comfortably indisposed to bestir themselves. When midnight struck he dragged himself to his feet with a feeling of bewilderment.
“Great Scot! Chum will think I’m killed—had a headache, too, poor little soul!” he said vaguely. His splendid, vacant face was turned to the hot night beyond the open doors; he was wondering how he should ever get down that winding hill in the dark with this stupid feeling in his brain. He must trust to the pony, it was no good worrying.
Diana beckoned him imperiously on to the stoep, and he obeyed, pulling himself together and walking straight, without control of his own body, it seemed, into the cooler night air. She was holding one of the big Mess tumblers, with the Wessex crest on it, sparkling with whiskey and soda, and deliciously cold with ice.