"I came by the early train to avoid ordering breakfast; I couldn't have paid for it. I'd only enough for my fare. Jan, I haven't a single rupee left."
He sat forward in the chair with his hands on the arms and closed his eyes again.
Jan looked keenly at the handsome, haggard face. There was no pretence here. The man was gravely ill. His lips (Jan had always mistrusted his well-shaped mouth because it would never really shut) were dry and cracked and discoloured, the cheekbones sharp, and there was that deep hollow at the back of the neck that always betrays the man in ill-health.
She went to him and pressed him back in the chair.
"What do you generally do when you have fever?" she asked.
"Go to bed—if there is a bed; and take quinine and drink hot tea."
"That's what you'd better do now. Where are your things?"
"There's a small bag at the station. They promised to send it up. I couldn't carry it and I had no money to pay a boy. I came the long way round, Jan, not through the village. No one recognised me."
"I'll get you some tea at once, and I have quinine in the house. Will you take some now?"
Hugo laughed. "Your quinine would be of no earthly use to me, but I've already taken it this morning. I've got some here in my pocket. The minute my bag comes I'll go to bed—if you don't mind."