'Come in and have some tea,' she said. 'Best thing in the world for
heat-apoplexy.'

'Do I look as if I were going to have heat-apoplexy?'

'Never can tell,' said William, wisely. 'It's always best to be
ready.'

She had arranged her belongings with the knowledge of an old
campaigner. A felt-covered water-bottle hung in the draught of one
of the shuttered windows; a tea-set of Russian china, packed in a
wadded basket, stood ready on the seat: and a travelling spirit-lamp
was clamped against the woodwork above it.

William served them generously, in large cups, hot tea, which saves
the veins of the neck from swelling inopportunely on a hot night. It
was characteristic of the girl that, her plan of action once settled,
she asked for no comments on it. Life with men who had a great deal
of work to do, and very little time to do it in, had taught her the
wisdom of effacing as well as of fending for herself. She did not by
word or deed suggest that she would be useful, comforting, or
beautiful in their travels, but continued about her business
serenely: put the cups back without clatter when tea was ended, and
made cigarettes for her guests.

'This time last night,' said Scott, 'we didn't expect--er--this kind
of thing, did we?'

'I've learned to expect anything,' said William. 'You know, in our
service, we live at the end of the telegraph; but, of course, this