"I fancy it's malaria," he added, his teeth chattering slightly, as much from fright as from a desire to support his theory.
"I've got some brandy in my hold-all, if you'll kindly reach it down for me," said his companion.
"Not for worlds—I mean, I never take anything for it," he assured her earnestly.
"I suppose you caught it in the Tropics?"
Theodoric, whose acquaintance with the Tropics was limited to an annual present of a chest of tea from an uncle in Ceylon, felt that even the malaria was slipping from him. Would it be possible, he wondered, to disclose the real state of affairs to her in small instalments?
"Are you afraid of mice?" he ventured, growing, if possible, more scarlet in the face.
"Not unless they came in quantities, like those that ate up Bishop Hatto. Why do you ask?"
"I had one crawling inside my clothes just now," said Theodoric in a voice that hardly seemed his own. "It was a most awkward situation."
"It must have been, if you wear your clothes at all tight," she observed; "but mice have strange ideas of comfort."
