“Exactly!” The little Doctor smiled shrewdly. “You look feverish, Monsieur Gervase.”
Gervase flushed red under his dark skin.
“I daresay I am feverish,” he replied irritably,—“I find this place hot as an oven. I think I should go away to-morrow if I had not asked the Princess Ziska to sit to me.”
“You are going to paint her picture?” exclaimed Courtney. “By Jove! I congratulate you. It will be the masterpiece of the next salon.”
Gervase bowed.
“You flatter me! The Princess is undoubtedly an attractive subject. But, as I said before, this place stifles me. I think the hotel is too near the river,—there is an oozy smell from the Nile that I hate, and the heat is perfectly sulphureous. Don’t you find it so, Doctor?”
“N-n-o! I cannot say that I do. Let me feel your pulse; I am not a medical man—but I can easily recognize any premonitions of illness.”
Gervase held out his long, brown, well-shaped hand, and the savant’s small, cool fingers pressed lightly on his wrist.
“You are quite well, Monsieur Gervase,” he said after a pause,—“You have a little sur-excitation of the nerves, certainly,—but it is not curable by medicine.” He dropped the hand he held, and looked up—“Good-night!”
“Good-night!” responded Gervase.