Why had John done it?  Why?  She supposed he wanted to hurt her and frighten her because he had been hurt, because he had been frightened.  And because he knew she loved her wounded men.  Perhaps he wanted to make her hate him and have done with it.

Well, she did hate him.  Oh, yes, she hated him.

She heard the window open and shut and a woman’s footsteps swishing on the stone floor.  Trixie Rankin came to her, with her quick look that fell on you like a bird swooping.  She stood facing her, upright and stiff in her sharp beauty; her lips were pressed together as though they had just closed on some biting utterance; but her eyes were soft and intent.

“What’s he done this time?” she said.

“He hasn’t done anything.”

“Oh yes, he has.  He’s done something perfectly beastly.”

It was no use lying to Trixie.  She knew what he was like, even if she didn’t know about yesterday, even if she didn’t know what he had done now.  Nobody could know that.  She looked straight at Trixie, with broad, open eyes that defied her to know.

“What makes you think so?”

“Your face.”

“Damn my face.  It’s got nothing to do with you, Trixie.”

“Yes it has.  If it gives the show away I can’t help seeing, can I?”

“You can help talking.”

“Yes, I can help talking.”

The arrogance had gone out of her face.  It could change in a minute from the face of a bird of prey to the face of a watching angel.  It looked at her as it looked at wounded men:  tender and protective.  But Trixie couldn’t see that you didn’t want any tenderness and protection just then, or any recognition of your wound.

“You rum little blighter,” she said.  “Come along.  Nobody’s going to talk.”

There was a stir as Charlotte went in; people shifting their places to make room for her; McClane calling out to her to come and sit by him; Alice Bartrum making sweet eyes; the men getting up and cutting bread and butter and reaching for her cup to give it her.  She could see they were all determined to be nice, to show her what they thought of her; they had sent Trixie to bring her in.  There was something a little deliberate about it and exaggerated.  They were getting it up—­a demonstration in her favour, a demonstration against John Conway.

She talked; but her thoughts ran by themselves on a line separate from her speech.

“We got in six wounded.” ...  “That cure was there again.  He was splendid.” ...  They didn’t know anything.  They condemned him on the evidence of her face, the face she had brought back to them, coming straight from John.  Her face had the mark of what he had done to her....  “Much firing?  Not so very much.” ...  She remembered what he had said to her about her face.  “Something’s happened to it.  Some cruelty.  Some damnable cruelty....”

“We’ll have to go out there again.”

They were all listening, and Alice Bartrum had made fresh tea for her; McClane was setting down her cup.  She was thirsty; she longed for the fresh, fragrant tea; she was soothed by the kind, listening faces.  Suddenly they drew away; they weren’t listening any more.  John had come into the room.