Her cheek, her lips were red-hot: her breath coming in spurts.
“Sorry I’m late, my darling, but Daphne’s going away and she simply made me——”
The sentence lost itself in a savage cough.
I watched her sway to the sofa as if I was in a dream. . . .
Then I closed the door and switched on the lights.
Something was wrong, of course.
Jo was seriously ill: her skin was burning like fire. Besides, she was talking nonsense. At least . . . For one thing only, I knew that Daphne Pleydell was in the South of France.
Bugle, poor fellow, was almost out of his mind. He was all over Jo, scrambling and whining and pawing and licking her face. For an instant only Jo held him up in her arms. Her sleeves fell back, and I saw how wasted they were. Then—
“You’re getting heavy,” she laughed, and the poor thin arms gave way and Bugle was in her lap.
Sitting there, flushed, on the sofa, Jo talked and coughed and talked, while Bugle kept whimpering with pleasure and I stood watching and noting and thinking what I must do.