Even the midnight chill did not drive her to bed. She closed the flap
of her tent, lit a lamp, and tried to read, but the letters danced
before her eyes. Instead of the scenes portrayed by the book, she saw
three ghostly camels shuffling through stones and sand in the darkness,
and, on one of them, the tall figure of the man whose parting words had
filled her soul with honey sweetness. At last, weary with anxiety on
his behalf, she threw herself, fully dressed, on her low-hung hammock,
this being Mr. Fenshawe's clever device to protect European skins from
the attacks of the insects that swarm in the desert wherever there is
any sign of dampness. She slept a few fitful hours, and her first
waking thought was a prayer for Dick's well-being.
Then came Mrs. Haxton, and the girl received her with unaffected
friendliness, being in the mood that demanded the sympathy she was
prepared to offer to all who suffered. Her visitor was observant. Her
woman's eyes noted that Irene was still attired in a muslin dinner
dress, whereas she invariably wore a riding costume of brown holland or
Assam silk in the morning.
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