The last bed of all was screened. “He’s in here,” whispered the Sister. She shifted one of the screens noiselessly; and Patricia tip-toed in. For a moment, the joy of seeing him eclipsed judgment. Then it was no longer merely the loving woman, Peter’s wife, who looked down on him; but Patricia Baynet the doctor’s daughter, sickness-wise by inheritance! He lay on his back, bandaged arm outside the coverlet. In the shadow cast by the screens, his unshaved face showed thin and fine-drawn. She hardly noticed these symptoms; she had expected and discounted them. She noticed something else—his breathing. It came spasmodically, in quick uneven jerks through half-opened lips. Twice, during the ten minutes she stood watching him, he seemed about to awaken; moaned in his sleep. . . . The Sister signalled to her that it was time to leave him. Very quietly, she withdrew; and they passed out of the ward again. “Well,” asked the Sister, “what do you think of him?” Patricia looked doubtfully at the unintelligent eyes under the white cap. “How long has he been here?” she asked. “Two days, I think. I’ve only just come to this ward.” “Could I see the doctor who’s attending him?” “He’s left, I think. But the Orderly Officer’s in his room. I’ll take you to him if you like.” They found the Orderly Officer, an ascetic-looking young man, seated at a large desk, telephone in front of him, fountain-pen in hand. He offered Patricia a seat, listened carefully to her questions. “Yes,” said Captain Territt, “your husband’s been here two days. I saw him when he came in. He told me that a piece of shrapnel hit him on the helmet. Slight case of concussion, I expect. He’ll soon get over that. And he’s got a touch of bronchial catarrh. Exposure, you know.” “When did you take his temperature last?” “Five o’clock, I expect.” He turned to the nurse. “When was it, Sister?” The girl hesitated. “I—I didn’t take it. He seemed so sound asleep.” “Well, please go and do so at once.” The girl hurried out of the room. “We’re frightfully understaffed, you know,” explained the doctor. Patricia looked at him, summed him up. She was half mad with anxiety; but she spoke without a trace of emotion. “May I use your telephone, doctor?” “Certainly.” She pulled the instrument towards her; called up her father’s number. . . . The nurse, returning white-faced, thermometer in hand, heard her say:—“Is that Jenkins speaking? . . . This is Mrs. Jameson. . . . Then you must put me through to his consulting-room. . . . Is that you, pater? . . . Did you get my wire? . . . I’m at the hospital now. . . . No, he’s very ill, and I want you to come down at once. . . . It’s pneumonia, I think. . . . In half-an-hour. . . . Thanks awfully, pater.” She hung up the receiver; turned to Captain Territt. “It _is_ pneumonia, isn’t it?” “I’m afraid so. The temperature’s rather high.” “How high?” “A hundred and four point one, under the arm.” Doctor and Sister hurried out of the room. . . .