And then she thought once more of James.
Only it was all so difficult, so horrible, that she could have cried. Even as she sat with her back to it she was conscious of that photograph, of the lips of Godovius and that poor cow-like creature. The thing was subtly in keeping with the rest of the room, the soft carpet and the cushions, the lavish crimson and gold, the sickly scent of frangipani. She shuddered. In another moment she would have gone precipitately. She had even risen to her feet when the velvet portière swung back and Godovius himself entered the room.
He smiled and held out his hand: “At last, Miss Eva.”
His smile resembled that of the man in the photograph; his cheeks were flushed; he looked far younger than usual. She forced herself to speak.
“James is ill . . . that is why I came. I can’t understand him. I’m terribly distressed.”
“At any rate you have come at last. . . . What is your brother’s trouble?”
To Eva it was a tremendous relief to talk of it. She told him how she had left James; implored him to let her know if the condition were serious. He listened, a thought impatiently. “Quinine? He has had plenty of quinine? Then you can do nothing more. This cerebral type of malaria is not uncommon. To-morrow it is possible he will be better. To-morrow . . .”
“Then you can’t do anything?” she asked. “Oh, can’t you help me at all?”
“No . . . there is no other treatment,” he said.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you. I was so distressed. I must get back quickly. Perhaps you will spare me one of your boys to show me the way.”