"Is that a joke?" she demanded.

"I really don't know--I--I thought it was, but then, you see, I'm sick."

"You're English, aren't you?" was her next query.

"Now that's too much, even for a sick man," he cried.  "You know well enough that I am."

"Oh," she said absently, "then you are?"

He frowned, tightened his lips, then burst into laughter, in which she joined.

"It's my own fault," he confessed.  "I shouldn't have baited you. I'll be careful in the future."

"In the meantime go on laughing, and I'll see about breakfast.  Is there anything you would fancy?"

He shook his head.

"It will do you good to eat something.  Your fever has burned out, and you are merely weak.  Wait a moment."

She hurried out of the room in the direction of the kitchen, tripped at the door in a pair of sandals several sizes too large for her feet, and disappeared in rosy confusion.

"By Jove, those are my sandals," he thought to himself.  "The girl hasn't a thing to wear except what she landed on the beach in, and she certainly landed in sea-boots."