"Perhaps you haven't tried," said Nick.
Silence descended once more, and Nick was rude enough to fall asleep.
An hour later he awoke with extreme alertness in response to a remark from Max as to the lateness of the hour.
"Yes, by Jove," he said. "I must be getting back. By the way, Wyndham, did I mention to you that Sharapura is the name of the place we are going to? It's quite an interesting corner of the Empire, and declared by medical experts to be a top-hole neighbourhood for studying malaria."
"Is that a recommendation?" asked Max grimly.
Nick's smile was geniality itself. "It is," he answered; "a very strong recommendation." He thrust out a friendly hand. "Good-night, my son, and good luck to you!"
Max's grip was hard and sustained. He looked into the grinning, humorous face, and almost in spite of himself his own mouth took a humorous twist.
"So that's what you came to say, is it?" he said. "Well, good-night, you old rotter, and—thanks!"
Nick mounted his horse and rode back in the moonlight, singing a tuneless but very sentimental love lyric to the stars.