In such moments of complete detachment, when his mind was free from the encumbrance of active thought, he received strange impressions. They were not memories, he told himself, any more than are those faces which grow and fade in the darkness just between sleeping and waking. They were whisps of dreams that were born and dissolved in a fraction of time. He had seen such clouds grow instantly above the lake of Geneva, and watching them from the terraces of Caux, had of a sudden missed them, even as he watched.
So these impressions appeared and vanished. There was one that was distinct and more frequent than any other. It was of a hut, long and narrow. Two broad sloping benches ran down each side and these, at night, were packed with sleeping men. The door to the hut was very solid and was locked by a soldier—he could sometimes hear the swish of the soldier's boots as he paced the gravel path surrounding the hut. Once a man had died—Ronnie helped to carry him out. It was a plague that had struck the island—island? Yes, it was an island, in the tropics, for the nights were very hot and the plants luxurious.
"There is a ring—will M'sieur require me?"
"Yes, stay, François."
Ronnie jumped up and dusted his trousers. Another second, and he was halfway across the room.
"I'm so glad that I came, Ronnie: it wasn't that Christina insisted: I wanted to see you, dear."
How pale, how ill she looked, he thought, with a sinking heart. She was going away somewhere, for she was dressed for travelling.
"Beryl, my dear, you are not well?"
"Oh, I'm well enough, Ronnie," she glanced back at the door. She expected that any moment Steppe would come—he would guess. There was a train to be caught too—the madness of this visit!
He held both her hands in his.