“‘Yes. And D’Acunha mentioned it when I got in.’
“‘There’s a P. & O. boat from Singapore next week Thursday.’ She looked straight at him.
“‘There’s a Royal Dutch Mail from Batavia next week Saturday,’ he flung back.
“She drew a scarf round her shoulders, despite the steaming heat. ‘Who wants to go to Rotterdam? If we’re going, let’s go sanely.’
“‘We can’t go sanely.’ And Dorrien was white beneath his sunburn as he said it.
“Some other people came in, and I didn’t scruple to talk to them. If the Dorriens were going to break, I, out of sheer patriotism, didn’t want them to break before a public like that. Perhaps I still had some hope of getting away. I’ve forgotten about that, but it seems reasonable. I do remember that I staved it off until after dinner. But they didn’t let me alone. They wanted a referee, I imagine; some one who would keep them from screaming insults at each other, or decide between them when they did.
“There’s something morally disintegrating about heat. I fancy that’s been said before, but I know how true it is. My own nerves were on edge with it. Why didn’t they go up into the mountains somewhere and dance with Dutch residents, instead of sticking to ports? But I suppose that would only have postponed the catastrophe. Anyhow, it couldn’t hurt either of them to get out of that rotten temperature, no matter where they went. She was whiter than chalk, and Dorrien was nervous as a cat. Her voice jangled, and he twitched all over when she spoke. I didn’t see that there was a penny to choose between them for merit, except that she was stronger than he. They’d both break, but he’d break half a minute sooner. Ugh! it was bad!”
Hoyting breathed in the wind that blew gently against us off the Mediterranean waves. “You don’t know anything about heat. Dry heat doesn’t matter. When there’s nothing but steam to breathe—everything hot and vaporous and reeking—temperate people lose their poise. Soerabaya was like holding your head over a teakettle. Yes, I was sorriest for Dorrien. But why didn’t they go to the mountains and have it out, if they had to, in paradise?”
He was silent for some moments over his vermouth. I didn’t interrupt. I knew the rest would come. Uneasy reminiscence of the kind then wrinkling his face would only expedite his narrative. When he began again, it was abruptly, with a change of tone; but his eyes had never moved from the harbor lights.
“I was sorriest for Dorrien. I asked him over to smoke on my porch. Your porch is your sitting-room, you know, and you don’t go inside until you have to. I said, ‘Let’s throw bananas to the monkeys.’ The heat had gone to my head a little, too—heat and annoyance. He moved off at once. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Can’t I come and throw bananas to the monkeys?’ said Mrs. Dorrien. ‘Of course.’ We were all unnaturally serious, you see—a bad sign. I was in it, then, for as long as they chose to stay. What fool invented hospitality, I wonder?