Neil Harley started from his chair; and then he staggered, and caught at the table for support.
“The heat!” he said, huskily—“giddy!—a glass—water!”
The servant went to a great cooler standing in the draught of the window, and filled and brought a glass of the clear, cold fluid.
“Thanks!” said the Resident, drinking feverishly, and recovering himself. “Who brought the message?”
“Yusuf, the Malay. His boat waits,” replied the man; and making an effort to be calm, the Resident took up his sun-hat, and walked firmly down to the landing-stage, where he was ferried across and then walked up to the doctor’s cottage, overtaking Hilton on the way.
“You going there?” he said.
“Yes,” replied Hilton. “I was going up to ask how Miss Perowne was now. Were you going there?”
“Yes,” said the Resident, bitterly; “I was going there. Were you sent for too?”
“I? No; it was not likely. Pray disabuse your mind, Harley, of all such thoughts as that! There is nothing between Miss Perowne and me.”
“Not now that she is in misery and distress!” retorted the Resident, and his voice sounded almost savage in its reproach.