“Tell me, if you can, how soon he complained of illness,” he said.
“After you left? He never actually complained, but he looked ill, and allowed that he had headache the next day—the day we left Vadheim. At Sande he seemed better. Then came—let me think—yes, it was from Sande that we found the heat rather tremendous. After that he flagged, I am sure. What should we have done?”
He read real trouble in her eyes.
“I can think of nothing. I know Hugh. He would not give up.”
“Give up? No. He knows how to hold on.”
There might have been a double meaning in his words, but at such a time Wareham could not so much as glance at it. He said only—
“The time must have been difficult for you all.”
“Hardly. There was so little choice. The only question lay between remaining at Molde or coming on here, and then we had Dr Scott on whose shoulders to slip our responsibility. I bless him for his decision. What should we have done without nurses!”
She stopped and looked out of the window, her mouth half open, and the breath coming lightly and quickly between her parted lips.
“From what I have seen he is being admirably cared for,” said Wareham, “and I should think the risk of taking him to England would have been too great.”