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said, stretching his arms and yawning, ‘I feel a lot better now.’
    It was exactly, thought Joan, remembering the scene, what a man might say after downing a glass of beer on a thirsty day.
    They had walked home in silence after that – in silence on Joan’s part, that is. Michael Callaway seemed, from the extraordinary noises he made, to be attempting to sing. It was on the outskirts of the wood, just before they emerged on to the Crayminster Market Wopling high road, that he had paused and surveyed her dispassionately, and then remarked in a contemplative tone:
    â€˜You know, you’re the sort of woman who ought to be raped. It might do you good.’
    And, whilst she had stood, speechless with anger and astonishment, he had added cheerfully:
    â€˜I’d rather like to rape you myself – and see if you looked the least bit different afterwards.’
    Then he had stepped out on to the high road, and giving up trying to sing had whistled cheerfully.
    Naturally she had never spoken to him again and he had left Crayminster a few days later.
    A strange, puzzling and rather disturbing incident. Not an incident that Joan had cared to remember. In fact, she rather wondered that she had remembered it now …
    Horrid, the whole thing had been, quite horrid.
    She would put it out of her mind at once. After all, one didn’t want to remember unpleasant things when one was having a sun and sand rest cure. There was so much to think of that was pleasant and stimulating.
    Perhaps lunch would be ready. She glanced at her watch, but saw that it was only a quarter to one.
    When she got back to the rest house, she went to her room and hunted in her suitcase to see if she had any more writing paper with her. No, she hadn’t. Oh, well, it didn’t matter really. She was tired of writing letters. There wasn’t much to say. You couldn’t go on writing the same thing. What books had she got? Lady Catherine, of course. And a detective story that William had given her last thing. Kind of him, but she didn’t really care for detective stories. And The Power House by Buchan. Surely that was a very old book. She had read it years ago.
    Oh well, she would be able to buy some more books at the station at Aleppo.
    Lunch consisted of an omelette (rather tough and overcooked), curried eggs, and a dish of salmon (tinned) and baked beans and tinned peaches.
    It was rather a heavy meal. After it Joan went and lay down on her bed. She slept for three quarters of an hour, then woke up and read Lady Catherine Dysart until tea time.
    She had tea (tinned milk) and biscuits and went for a stroll and came back and finished Lady Catherine Dysart . Then she had dinner: omelette, curried salmon and rice, a dish of eggs and baked beans and tinned apricots. After that she started the detective story and finished it by the time she was ready for bed.
    The Indian said cheerfully:
    â€˜Good night, Memsahib. Train come in seven-thirty tomorrow morning but not go out till evening, half past eight.’
    Joan nodded.
    There would be another day to put in. She’d got The Power House still. A pity it was so short. Then an idea struck her.
    â€˜There will be travellers coming in on the train? Oh, but they go straight off to Mosul, I suppose?’
    The man shook his head.
    â€˜Not tomorrow, I think. No cars arrive today. I think track to Mosul very bad. Everything stick for many days.’
    Joan brightened. There would be travellers off the train in the rest house tomorrow. That would be rather nice – there was sure to be someone to whom it would be possible to talk.
    She went to bed feeling more cheerful than she had ten minutes ago. She thought, There’s something about the atmosphere of this place – I think it’s that dreadful smell of rancid fat! It quite depresses one.
    She awoke the next morning at eight o’clock and got up and dressed. She came out into the dining-room. One place