“Yes,” she said softly, pressing the back of his hand quickly. “Yes, Charles. I promise you that.”
“You aren’t hurt, Olivia?”
“No, Charles. Not hurt.”
“God bless you, Olivia.”
“Come in to Tom, now,” she said in a low voice. She was moved and touched. They went in.
Stukeley sat at the cabin table, drinking brandy without water. He was white and sick. Their entrance made him start up with an oath.
“What’s the matter, Stukeley?” said Margaret. “We aren’t going into—into quarantine. Cammock’s signalled that it’s all right. What’s the matter with you? Let me feel your pulse.”
“Ah,” he said, gasping. “Ah. This heat’s upset me.”
“How are you, Tom?” Olivia tenderly asked. “How’s your head?”
“Oh, my head’s all right. Don’t bother. Don’t bother.” He rose from his seat, laughing wildly. “What a turn it gave me,” he said. “I’m going to see old Brandyco. I’m all right again, Olivia.” He took her by the shoulders and bent back her head so that he might kiss her. “Poor little Olive,” he said caressingly, pinching her arms. “She’s been worrying, ever so. Hasn’t she? Hasn’t she? Eh?” He kissed her eyes. Margaret turned away, wondering whether the kiss smelt worse of brandy or tobacco.