“My head’s damn bad,” he groaned.  “It feels as if it’s going to burst.”

He swayed and almost fell.  She helped him over to the bed.  He sunk on it with a sigh of relief.

“I feel damn bad,” he said again, and burst into tears.

“Don’t cry, Louis.  I’m going to make you better now,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking his damp hair gently.

“Light me a cig-rette—­light me a cig-rette,” he said, rapidly, shaking his hands impatiently.  “In my coat—­find my cigarette-holder.  Be quick—­be quick—­There, I’m sorry, old girl.  I felt so jumpy then.  It seems as if there are faces watching me.  Marcella—­I’m sure there are Chinks about.”

“You’re quite safe with Marcella,” she said, soothingly, as if she were speaking to a child.  He puffed at the cigarette but his hands shook so much that she had to hold it for him.  It soothed him considerably.  She registered that fact for future reference.  Presently he threw the cigarette across the room into the grate and turned over.

“Lord, I’m tired.  Not had a decent night’s sleep for centuries.  Those damn bunks on the Oriana were so hard!  Marcella—­I want to go to sleep.  If I don’t get some sleep I shall go mad.  Let me put my poor old head on your shoulder and go to sleep.  I—­dream—­of your—­white shoulders.”

She sat quite still, trembling a little until his heavy breathing told her that he was asleep.  His hair, which he had soaked in water to make it lie straight, felt wet and cold on her neck.  After a long while she laid his head on the pillow and stood up, stretching herself because she was so stiff.

“Don’t leave me,” he murmured, without opening his eyes.  She laid a cool hand on his head again.  When she took it away he was fast asleep.  She stood with her hands clasped behind her, watching him for a long time.  Then she turned away with a sigh, to gaze through the window, trying to locate her position by the stars, only to be puzzled until she remembered that, for the last three weeks, the stars had been different from those that kept their courses above Lashnagar.  She would not have felt so lonely had she been able to turn towards home as a Mahommedan turns towards Mecca.  After awhile, chilled and hungry and aching in her throat, she turned back into the room.

“Being married is horrible,” she whispered.  “I thought it was such an adventure.”

Going across to the bed she stood looking at him, her eyes filled with tears and, bending over him, she touched his forehead with her lips.

“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she whispered.  “I wish you weren’t drunk.”

He stirred, and his hand made a little, ineffectual movement towards her, and dropped again.

Something in its weakness, its inadequacy, made her impatient; she felt it impossible to come near to anything so ineffectual as that futile hand and, taking the pillow from the other side of the bed, laid it on the floor.  She started to undress and stopped sharp.