Mrs. Rankin laughed.  “Yesterday he couldn’t see there was any danger.  You could tell that by the idiotic things he said.”

“I saw it.  And if I could he could.”

“Funny kid.  You’d better get on with your tea.  You’ll be sent out again before you know where you are.”

Charlotte settled down.  Sutton was standing beside her now, cutting bread and butter.

“Hold on,” he said.  “That tea’s all stewed and cold.  I’ll make you some of mine.”

She drank the hot, fragrant China tea he brought her.

Presently she stood up.  “I think I’ll take John some of this.”

“Best thing you can give him,” Sutton said.  He got up and opened the doors for her, the glass doors and the door of the bedroom.

She sat down beside John’s bed and watched him while he drank Sutton’s tea.  He said he was all right now.  No.  He hadn’t ruptured anything; he only thought he had; but Sutton had overhauled him and said he was all right.

And all the time his face was still vexed and drawn.  Something must have happened out there; something that hurt him to think of.

“John,” she said, “I wish I’d gone with you instead of Mrs. Rankin.”

“I wish to God you had.  Everything’s all right when you’re with me, and everything’s all wrong when you’re not.”

“How do you mean, wrong?”

He shook his head, frowning slightly, as a sign for her to stop.  Sutton had come into the room.

“You needn’t go,” he said, “I’ve only come for my coat and my case.  I’ve got to help with the operations.”

He slipped into the white linen coat.  There were thin smears of blood on the sleeves and breast.  He groped about the room, peering short-sightedly for his case of instruments.

“John, was Mrs. Rankin any good?” she asked presently.

John lay back and closed his eyes as if to shut out the sight of Mrs. Rankin.

“Don’t talk to me,” he said, “about that horrible woman.”

Sutton had turned abruptly from his search.

“Good?” he said.  “She was magnificent.  So was Miss Bartrum.  So was McClane.”

John opened his eyes.  “So was Charlotte.”

“I quite agree with you.”  Sutton had found his case.  His face was hidden by the raised lid as he peered, examining his instruments.  He spoke abstractly.  “Magnificent.”

When he left the room Charlotte followed him.

“Billy—­”

“Well—­”

He stopped in his noiseless course down the corridor.

“What was it?” she said.  “What happened?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand her.

“Oh, nothing.  Conway and Mrs. Rankin didn’t hit it off very well together.”

They spoke in low, rapid tones, conscious, always, of the wards behind the shut doors.  Her feet went fast and noiseless beside his as he hurried to the operating theatre.  They came out on to the wide landing and waited there by the brass lattice of the lift.