The nurse came by, and smiled at Pierson.

“He’s one of our blase ones; been in before, haven’t you, Simson?”

Pierson looked at the young man, whose long, narrow face; where one sandy-lashed eyelid drooped just a little, seemed armoured with a sort of limited omniscience.  The gramophone had whirred and grunted into “Sidi Brahim.”  The nurse passed on.

“‘Seedy Abram,’” said the young soldier.  “The Frenchies sing it; they takes it up one after the other, ye know.”

“Ah!” murmured Pierson; “it’s pretty.”  And his fingers drummed on the counterpane, for the tune was new to him.  Something seemed to move in the young man’s face, as if a blind had been drawn up a little.

“I don’t mind France,” he said abruptly; “I don’t mind the shells and that; but I can’t stick the mud.  There’s a lot o’ wounded die in the mud; can’t get up—­smothered.”  His unwounded arm made a restless movement.  “I was nearly smothered myself.  Just managed to keep me nose up.”

Pierson shuddered.  “Thank God you did!”

“Yes; I didn’t like that.  I told Mrs. Lynch about that one day when I had the fever.  She’s a nice lady; she’s seen a lot of us boys:  That mud’s not right, you know.”  And again his unwounded arm made that restless movement; while the gramophone struck up:  “The boys in brown.”  The movement of the arm affected Pierson horribly; he rose and, touching the bandaged shoulder, said: 

“Good-bye; I hope you’ll soon be quite recovered.”

The young soldier’s lips twisted in the semblance of a smile; his drooped eyelid seemed to try and raise itself.

“Good day, sir,” he said; “and thank you.”

Pierson went back to the hall.  The sunlight fell in a pool just inside the open door, and an uncontrollable impulse made him move into it, so that it warmed him up to the waist.  The mud!  How ugly life was!  Life and Death!  Both ugly!  Poor boys!  Poor boys!

A voice behind him said: 

“Oh!  There you are, Edward!  Would you like to see the other ward, or shall I show you our kitchen?”

Pierson took her hand impulsively.  “You’re doing a noble work, Leila.  I wanted to ask you:  Could you arrange for Noel to come and get trained here?  She wants to begin at once.  The fact is, a boy she is attracted to has just gone out to the Front.”

“Ah!” murmured Leila, and her eyes looked very soft.  “Poor child!  We shall be wanting an extra hand next week.  I’ll see if she could come now.  I’ll speak to our Matron, and let you know to-night.”  She squeezed his hand hard.

“Dear Edward, I’m so glad to see you again.  You’re the first of our family I’ve seen for sixteen years.  I wonder if you’d bring Noel to have supper at my flat to-night—­Just nothing to eat, you know!  It’s a tiny place.  There’s a Captain Fort coming; a nice man.”

Pierson accepted, and as he walked away he thought:  ’Dear Leila!  I believe it was Providence.  She wants sympathy.  She wants to feel the past is the past.  How good women are!’