Dragging himself wearily back to the shack, Stonor found that Clare still slept.
“Fine!” he said with clearing face. “There’s no doctor like sleep!”
His secret dread was that she might become seriously ill. What would he do in that case, so far away from help?
He sat himself down to watch beside Clare while Mary prepared the evening meal. There were still some three hours more of daylight, and he decided to be guided as to their start up-river by Clare’s condition when she awoke. If she had a horror of the place they could start at once, provided she were able to travel, and sleep under canvas. Otherwise it would be well to wait until morning, for he was pretty nearly all in himself. Indeed, while he waited with the keenest anxiety for Clare’s eyes to open, his own closed. He slept with his head fallen forward on his breast.
He awoke to find Clare’s wide-open eyes wonderingly fixed on him.
“Who are you?” she asked.
It struck a chill to his breast. Was she mad? This was a more dreadful horror than he had foreseen. Yet there was nothing distraught in her gaze, merely that same look of perplexed annoyance. It was an appreciable moment before he could collect his wits sufficiently to answer.
“Your friend,” he said, forcing himself to smile.
“Yes, I think you are,” she said slowly. “But it’s funny I don’t quite know you.”
“You soon will.”