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A Touch of the Sun
"What's that?" he demanded.
"I was just talking about Keno, my dog," said Holloway plaintively. "This moon made me think of the old garden back home, and the violets growing there—I swear I can almost smell 'em now—and one thing and another made me think of that pup of mine. He's about the only one I've got to think of now. Go to sleep again—don't mind me. I wonder if it's one of the phases of this beastly sun-sickness. If it is, I've got a touch, sure."
"Is what one of the phases?" Deane queried sleepily, as Holloway paused, expectant of an answer.
"The—er—smelling perfumes that aren't there and that sort of thing—why, what's the matter?"
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