MRS. FELLOWS lay in bed in the hot hotel room, listening to the siren of a boat on the river. She could see nothing because she had a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne over her eyes and forehead. She called sharply out: "My dear. My dear," but nobody replied. She felt that she had been prematurely buried in this big brass family tomb, all alone on two pillows, under a canopy. "Dear," she said again sharply, and waited.
   "Yes, Trixy." It was Captain Fellows. He said: "I was asleep, dreaming ..."
   "Put some more Cologne on this handkerchief, dear. My head's splitting."
   "Yes, Trixy."
   He took the handkerchief away: he looked old and tired and bored—a man without a hobby, and walking over to the dressing-table, he soaked the linen.
   "Not too much, dear. It will be days before we can get any more."
   He didn't answer, and she said sharply: "You heard what I said, dear, didn't you?"
   "Yes."
   "You are so silent these days. You don't realize what it is to be ill and alone."
   "Well," Captain Fellows said, "you know how it is."
   "But we agreed, dear, didn't we, that it was better just to say nothing at all, ever? We mustn't be morbid."
   "No."
   "We've got our own life to lead."
   "Yes."
   He came across to the bed and laid the handkerchief over his wife's eyes. Then sitting down on a chair, he slipped his hand under the net and felt for her hand. They gave an odd [204] effect of being children, lost in a strange town, without adult care.
   "Have you got the tickets?" she asked.
   "Yes, dear.'
   "I must get up later and pack, but my head hurts so. Did you tell them to collect the boxes?"
   "I forgot."
   "You really must try to think of things," she said weakly and sullenly. "There's no one else," and they both sat silent at a phrase they should have avoided. He said suddenly: "There's a lot of excitement in town."
   "Not a revolution?"
   "Oh, no. They've caught a priest and he's being shot this morning, poor devil. I can't help wondering whether it's the man Coral—I mean the man we sheltered."
   "It's not likely."
   "No."
   "There are so many priests."
   He let go of her hand, and going to the window looked out. Boats on the river, a small stony public garden with a bust, and buzzards everywhere.
   Mrs. Fellows said: "It will be good to be back home. I sometimes thought I should die in this place."
   "Of course not, dear."
   "Well, people do."
   "Yes, they do," he said glumly.
   "Now, dear," Mrs. Fellows said sharply, "your promise." She gave a long sigh: "My poor head."
   He said: "Would you like some aspirin?"
   "I don't know where I've put it. Somehow nothing is ever in its place."
   "Shall I go out and get you some more?"
   "No, dear, I can't bear being left alone." She went on with dramatic brightness: "I expect I shall be all right when we get home. I'll have a proper doctor then. I sometimes think it's more than a headache. Did I tell you that I'd heard from Norah?"
   "No."
   "Get me my glasses, dear, and I'll read you—what concerns us."
   [205] "They're on your bed."
   "So they are." One of the sailing-boats cast off and began to drift down the wide sluggish stream, going towards the sea. She read with satisfaction: " 'Dear Trix: how you have suffered. That scoundrel ...' " She broke abruptly off: "Oh, yes, and then she goes on: 'Of course, you and Charles must stay with us for a while until you have found somewhere to live. If you don't mind semi-detached ...' "
   Captain Fellows said suddenly and harshly: "I'm not going back."
   "The rent is only fifty-six pounds a year, exclusive, and there's a maid's bathroom."
   "I'm staying."
   "A 'cookanheat.' What on earth are you saying, dear?"
   "I'm not going back."
   "We've been over that so often, dear. You know it would kill me to stay."
   "You needn't stay."
   "But I couldn't go alone," Mrs. Fellows said. "What on earth would Norah think? Besides—oh, it's absurd."
   "A man here can do a job of work."
   "Picking bananas," Mrs Fellows said. She gave a little cold laugh. "And you weren't much good at that."
   He turned furiously towards the bed. "You don't mind," he said, "do you—running away and leaving her ...?"
   "It wasn't my fault. If you'd been at home ..." She began to cry bunched up under the mosquito-net. She said: "I'll never get home alive."
   He came wearily over to the bed and took her hand again. It was no good. They had both been deserted. They had to stick together. "You won't leave me alone, will you, dear?" she asked. The room reeked of eau-de-Cologne.
   "No, dear."
   "You do realize how absurd it is?"
   "Yes."
   They sat in silence for a long while, as the morning sun climbed outside and the room got stiflingly hot. Mrs. Fellows said at last: "A penny, dear."
   "What?"
   "For your thoughts."
   [206] "I was just thinking of that priest. A queer fellow. He drank. I wonder if it's him."
   "If it is, I expect he deserves all he gets."
   "But the odd thing is—the way she went on afterwards—as if he'd told her things."
   "Darling," Mrs. Fellows repeated, with harsh weakness from the bed, "your promise."
   "Yes, I'm sorry. I was trying, but it seems to come up all the time."
   "We've got each other, dear," Mrs. Fellows said, and the letter from Norah rustled as she turned her head, swathed in handkerchief, away from the hard outdoor light.
 
   Mr. Tench bent over the enamel basin washing his hands with pink soap. He said in his bad Spanish: "You don't need to be afraid. You can tell me directly it hurts."
   The jefe's room had been fixed up as a kind of temporary dentist's office—at considerable expense, for it had entailed transporting not only Mr. Tench himself, but Mr. Tench's cabinet, chair, and all sorts of mysterious packing-cases which seemed to contain little but straw and which were unlikely to return empty.
   "I've had it for months," the jefe said. "You can't imagine the pain ..."
   "It was foolish of you not to call me in sooner. Your mouth's in a very bad state. You are lucky to have escaped—pyorrhoea." He finished washing and suddenly stood, towel in hand, thinking of something. "What's the matter?" the jefe said. Mr. Tench woke with a jump, and coming forward to his cabinet, began to lay out the drill needles in a little metallic row of pain. The jefe watched with apprehension. He said: "Your hand is very jumpy. Are you quite sure you are well enough this morning?"
   "It's indigestion," Mr. Tench said. "Sometimes I have so many spots in front of my eyes I might be wearing a veil." He fitted a needle into the drill and bent the arm round. "Now open your mouth very wide." He began to stuff the jefe's mouth with plugs of cotton. He said: "I've never seen a mouth as bad as yours—except once."
   [207] The jefe struggled to speak. Only a dentist could have interpreted the muffled and uneasy question.
   "He wasn't a patient. I expect someone cured him. You cure a lot of people in this country, don't you, with bullets?"
   As he picked and picked at the tooth, he tried to keep up a running fire of conversation: that was how one did things at Southend. He said: "An odd thing happened to me just before I came up the river. I got a letter from my wife. Hadn't so much as heard from her for—oh, twenty years. Then out of the blue she ..." He leant closer and levered furiously with his pick: the jefe beat the air and grunted. "Wash out your mouth," Mr. Tench said, and began grimly to fix his drill. He said: "What was I talking about? Oh, the wife, wasn't it? Seems she had got religion of some kind. Some sort of a group—Oxford. What would she be doing in Oxford? Wrote to say that she had forgiven me and wanted to make things legal. Divorce, I mean. Forgiven me," Mr. Tench said, looking round the little hideous room, lost in thought, with his hand on the drill. He belched and put his other hand against his stomach, pressing, pressing, seeking an obscure pain which was nearly always there. The jefe leant back exhausted with his mouth wide open.
   "It comes and goes," Mr. Tench said, losing the thread of his thought completely. "Of course, it's nothing. just indigestion. But it gets me locked." He stared moodily into the jefe's mouth as if a crystal were concealed between the carious teeth. Then, as if he were exerting an awful effort of will, he leant forward, brought the arm of the drill round, and began to pedal. Buzz and grate. Buzz and grate. The jefe stiffened all over and clutched the arms of the chair, and Mr. Tench's foot went up and down, up and down. The jefe made odd sounds and waved his hands. "Hold hard," Mr. Tench said, "hold hard. There's just one tiny corner. Nearly finished. There she comes. There." He stopped and said: "Good God, what's that?"
   He left the jefe altogether and went to the window. In the yard below a squad of police had just grounded their arms. With his hand on his stomach he protested: "Not another revolution?"
   The jefe levered himself upright and spat out a gag. "Of course not," he said. "A man's being shot."
   [208] "What for?"
   "Treason."
   "I thought you generally did it," Mr. Tench said, "up by the cemetery?" A horrid fascination kept him by the window: this was something he had never seen. He and the buzzards looked down together on the little whitewashed courtyard.
   "It was better not to this time. There might have been a demonstration. People are so ignorant."
   A small man came out of a side door: he was held up by two policemen, but you could tell that he was doing his best—it was only that his legs were not fully under his control. They paddled him across to the opposite wall: an officer tied a handkerchief round his eyes. Mr. Tench thought: But I know him. Good God, one ought to do something. This was like seeing a neighbour shot.
   The jefe said: "What are you waiting for? The air gets into this tooth."
   Of course there was nothing to do. Everything went very quickly like a routine. The officer stepped aside, the rifles went up, and the little man suddenly made jerky movements wi............