Ansell said in a low voice to me: “Sun stroke.”
I nodded. “Now, look pal,” I said. “We’ve had a pretty hard day. Suppose you go to bed? You’ll be fine to-morrow.”
Bogle groaned. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to sleep again?” he said, pouring himself out another whisky.
Myra swung her feet to the ground and stood up. She was wearing a dark blue shirt and a pair of grey flannel trousers. The outfit certainly suited her neat little figure. She walked over to Bogle and took the whisky away from him.
“Go on,” she said. “Get off to bed or I’ll do more than float over you.”
Bogle shrank away from her. “Don’t come near me,” he said in horror.
“Leave him alone,” Ansell said. “It looks to me as if he were suffering from delayed shock.”
Myra hesitated, then keeping the whisky bottle she moved back to her chair.
I snapped the bottle out of her hand as she passed. “I’ll have what’s left,” I said and took a long pull from the bottle.
Myra sat down again. “Well, we’re right where we started, aren’t we?” she said. “We’ve spent the best part of an hour listening to Samuel’s drivel about floating women.”