Under a skylight six beds jutted out from a green distempered wall, opposite to six beds jutting out from another green distempered wall, and from each bed a face was turned towards them young faces, with but little expression in them.  A nurse, at the far end, looked round, and went on with her work.  The sight of the ward was no more new to Pierson than to anyone else in these days.  It was so familiar, indeed, that it had practically no significance.  He stood by the first bed, and Leila stood alongside.  The man smiled up when she spoke, and did not smile when he spoke, and that again was familiar to him.  They passed from bed to bed, with exactly the same result, till she was called away, and he sat down by a young soldier with a long, very narrow head and face, and a heavily bandaged shoulder.  Touching the bandage reverently, Pierson said: 

“Well, my dear fellow-still bad?”

“Ah!” replied the soldier.  “Shrapnel wound:  It’s cut the flesh properly.”

“But not the spirit, I can see!”

The young soldier gave him a quaint look, as much as to say:  “Not ’arf bad!” and a gramophone close to the last bed began to play:  “God bless Daddy at the war!”

“Are you fond of music?”

“I like it well enough.  Passes the time.”

“I’m afraid the time hangs heavy in hospital.”

“Yes; it hangs a bit ’eavy; it’s just ’orspital life.  I’ve been wounded before, you see.  It’s better than bein’ out there.  I expect I’ll lose the proper use o’ this arm.  I don’t worry; I’ll get my discharge.”

“You’ve got some good nurses here.”

“Yes; I like Mrs. Lynch; she’s the lady I like.”

“My cousin.”

“I see you come in together.  I see everything ’ere.  I think a lot, too.  Passes the time.”

“Do they let you smoke?”

“Oh, yes!  They let us smoke.”

“Have one of mine?”

The young soldier smiled for the first time.  “Thank you; I’ve got plenty.”

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.”