Jessie fanned herself. That did not do a particle of good, it only seemed to make her hotter, as when you stir the water in a hot bath. But she tried to interest herself in Archie's approaching decease.
"And are we to take your corpse back to England to-morrow?" she asked.
"Just as you like. I shall have no more use for it. Lord, and I haven't finished packing yet. Fancy having to pack in this heat."
"You needn't, surely, if you're going to die."
"I must. My immortal manuscript would be lost in the general confusion caused by my death. Or shall I go to bed? It can't be hotter in my hammock than here. Yes, I shall get into my pyjamas, go to bed, and do my packing in the morning."
He trailed off into the house, and presently appeared again attired for bed and strolled across to them.
"Well, I'll wish you a good-night," he said, "but I very much doubt whether you'll get it. You needn't do the same to me, for I know I shan't, and your wishes would be hollow."
He moved away again towards the stone-pine where his hammock was hung, a pale tall ghost of a figure against the blackness.
Then, quite suddenly, some panic impulse seized Jessie, the result perhaps of her overstrung nerves and the overcharged atmosphere, and she sprang up, not knowing why.
"Wait a moment, Archie," she cried. "Don't go—something is going to happen."