"Like Mrs. Fox?" she interrupted scornfully.
"Perhaps. I don't know much of Mrs. Fox. She doesn't appeal to me."
"You couldn't offer me a worse insult than to think that I might be like her!"
"I am sorry. Forgive me, will you?"
"I cannot forgive myself for my blindness and folly!"
Joyce spoke as though she were shivering, and Dalton was stricken with concern. "You are cold?" he asked anxiously.
Her teeth chattered. In December the nights in Bengal are often bitter, and Joyce had left her driving cloak in the car. Dalton immediately divested himself of his coat and made her wear it. His manner having returned to the professional, she was no longer afraid of him, so obeyed meekly.
"Now the rug," said he. And she was wrapped to her ears in the rug, after which he left her to herself for the night. Both listened to the patter of the rain as it fell on the débris around them, and, eventually overcome with fatigue, Joyce dropped off to sleep.