The building, so Bridget was informed, housed the Headquarters of the Base, and from it the business of the great Camp, whether on its military or its hospital side, was mainly carried on.  And as they drove towards the Camp her companion, with the natural pride of the Englishman in his job, told the marvellous tale of the two preceding years—­how the vast hospital city had been reared, and organised—­the military camp too—­the convalescent camp—­the transports—­and the feeding.

’The Boche thought they were the only organisers in the world!—­We’ve taught them better!’ he said, with a laugh in his pleasant eyes, the whole man of him, so weary the night before, now fresh and alert in the morning sunshine.

Bridget listened with an unwilling attention.  This bit of the war seen close at hand was beginning to suggest to her some new vast world, of which she was wholly ignorant, where she was the merest cypher on sufferance.  The thought was disagreeable to her irritable pride, and she thrust it aside.  She had other things to consider.

They drew up outside one of the general hospitals lined along the Camp road.

‘You’ll find him in a special ward,’ said Vincent, as he handed her out.  ‘But I’ll take you first to Sister.’

They entered the first hut, and made their way past various small rooms, amid busy people going to and fro.  Bridget was aware of the usual hospital smell of mingled anesthetic and antiseptic, and presently, her companion laid a hasty hand on her arm and drew her to one side.  A surgeon passed with a nurse.  They entered a room on the right, and left the door of it a little ajar.

‘The operating theatre,’ said Vincent, with a gesture that shewed her where to look; and through the open door Bridget saw a white room beyond, an operating table and a man, a splendid boy of nineteen or twenty lying on it, with doctors and nurses standing round.  The youth’s features shewed waxen against the white walls, and white overalls of the nurses.

‘This way,’ said Vincent.  ’Sister, this is Miss Cookson.  You remember—­Dr. Howson sent for her.’

A shrewd-faced woman of forty in nurse’s dress looked closely at Bridget.

’We shall be very glad indeed, Miss Cookson, if you can throw any light on this case.  It is one of the saddest we have here.  Will you follow me, please?’

Bridget found herself passing through the main ward of the hut, rows of beds on either hand.  She seemed to be morbidly conscious of scores of eyes upon her, and was glad when she found herself in the passage beyond the ward.

The Sister opened a door into a tiny sitting-room, and offered Bridget a chair.

‘They have warned you that this poor fellow is deaf and dumb?’

‘Yes—­I had heard that.’

’And his brain is very clouded.  He tries to do all we tell him—­it is touching to see him.  But his real intelligence seems to be far away.  Then there are the wounds.  Did Dr. Howson tell you about them?’