“In Africa. Yes, I’m let in for it occasionally—curse the place! I’ve had a pretty bad turn, I reckon. Where’s that clinical?”
The thermometer when consulted climbed to a hundred and three, and Farquhar decreed quinine. Hurrying off to prevent him in getting it, Lucian caught the tail of his robe in the fire-irons and dragged the fender half across the room before he could stop. He turned round and solemnly cursed it with a malediction exceeding that of the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims. Farquhar flung a pillow to speed him on his way, and Lucian stepped backward into the water-jug.
When this contretemps had been arranged with the help of the towels, Lucian sat on the bed—a quaint figure, with his bright eyes and brown face and draggle-tailed dressing-gown, the skirt of which he carefully spread over a chair to keep it away from his ankles.
“You ought to be in bed,” said Farquhar, impatiently; “not sitting up and playing the fool with me. Phew! how hot it is!”
“Oh, I’m not asking for any flowers on my grave,” said Lucian. “I like doing it. And, look here, Farquhar; I don’t want to be inquisitive, but have you been making love to Miss what’s-her-name?”
Farquhar sprang up. “What’s it to you if I have?”
“Something, sonny; because I happen to have been making love to her myself.”
“Yes, confound you! Living here on my charity, and by way of return you make love to my girl on the sly.”
“Farquhar, you shut up and lie down,” said Lucian, authoritatively.
Tormented with fever and worse tormented with jealousy, midway between love and friendship, Farquhar hesitated; but he finished by obeying. He flung up his scarred hand over his eyes and breathed deeply, longing for coolness. “Put that light out,” he said, “it drives me wild. I’ll be right enough to-morrow, but I’m ill now, and that’s the fact. Ill! I’m parching!”