He was still sitting there, holding on, with eyes
closed, striving to master his giddiness, when he heard her voice.
"You'll lie right down again, sir," she said.
It was sharply imperative, a voice used to command. At the same time one
hand pressed him back toward the pillow while the other caught him from
behind and eased him down.
"You've been unconscious for twenty-four hours now," she went on, "and I
have taken charge. When I say the word you'll get up, and not until
then. Now, what medicine do you take?--quinine? Here are ten grains.
That's right. You'll make a good patient."
"My dear madame," he began.
"You musn't speak," she interrupted, "that is, in protest. Otherwise,
you can talk."
"But the plantation--"
"A dead man is of no use on a plantation. Don't you want to know about
_me_? My vanity is hurt. Here am I, just through my first shipwreck;
and here are you, not the least bit curious, talking about your miserable
plantation. Can't you see that I am just bursting to tell somebody,
anybody, about my shipwreck?"
He smiled; it was the first time in weeks. And he smiled, not so much at
what she said, as at the way she said it--the whimsical expression of her
face, the laughter in her eyes, and the several tiny lines of humour that
drew in at the corners.
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