"Do you feel feverish?"
"A little. Do you notice how warm my hand is?"
"You haven't caught malaria in the tropics, have you?"
"No, you funny man. I'm never ill. But it's odd how burning hot I seem to be——"
She looked down at her fingers which still lay loosely across his.
They were silent for a while. And, little by little it seemed to her as though within her a curious stillness was growing, responsive to the quiet around her—a serenity stealing over her, invading her mind like a delicate mist—a dreamy mental lethargy, soothing, obscuring sense and thought.
Vaguely she was aware of their contact. He neither spoke nor stirred; and her palm burned softly, meltingly against his.
At last he lifted her hand and laid his lips to it in silence. Small head lowered, she dreamily endured his touch—a slight caress over her forehead—the very ghost of contact; suffered his cheek against hers, closer, never stirring.
Thought drifted, almost dormant, lulled by infinite and rhythmical currents which seemed to set her body swaying, gently; and, listless, non-resistant, conscious of the charm of it, she gradually yielded to the sorcery.
Then, like a shaft of sunlight slanting through a dream and tearing its fabric into tatters, his kiss on her lips awoke her.