"Did you see Valentine last night?" she asked.
Hemming told her that Hicks had come to his room for quinine.
"Good night, and please take good care of him," she said.
The Englishman screwed his eye-glass into place, and glared at her uneasily. "Hicks is a good sort," he said, "but he is not the kind for this country. Neither are you, Miss Tetson. But it's nuts for me,—this playing soldier at another man's expense."
He paused, and she waited, a little impatiently, for him to go on. "What I wanted to say," he continued, "is that there is one thing that goes harder with a man than yellow fever. I—ah—have experienced both. Hicks is a decent chap," he concluded, lamely.
Miss Tetson smiled and held out her hand.
"If he should want me in the night, please call me. I will not be asleep," she said.
Hemming, for all his rolling, had gathered a good deal of moss in the shape of handiness and out-of-the-way knowledge. Twice during the night he bathed the sick man; with ice and alcohol. Many times he lifted the burning head and held water to the hot lips. Sometimes he talked to him, very low, of the North and the blue sea, and thus brought sleep back to the glowing eyes. The windows were open and the blinds up, and a white moon walked above the gardens.
Just before dawn, Hemming dozed for a few minutes in his chair. He was awakened by some movement, and, opening his eyes, beheld Miss Tetson at the bedside. Hicks was sleeping, with his tired face turned toward the window. The girl touched his forehead tenderly with her lips.
Hemming closed his eyes again, and kept them so until he heard her leave the room,—a few light footsteps and a soft trailing of skirts. Then, in his turn, he bent above the sleeper.