“No necessity,” answered the major. He wheeled round on his heel and returned to the kitchen. The German surgeon advanced a little, led by his professional instinct, in the direction of the bedside. The young Englishman, whose eyes had remained riveted in admiration on Mercy, drew the canvas screen over the doorway and respectfully addressed her in the French language. “May I ask if I am speaking to a French lady?” he said. “I am an Englishwoman,” Mercy replied. The surgeon heard the answer. Stopping short on his way to the bed, he pointed to the recumbent figure on it, and said to Mercy, in good English, spoken with a strong German accent. “Can I be of any use there?” His manner was ironically courteous, his harsh voice was pitched in one sardonic monotony of tone. Mercy took an instantaneous dislike to this hobbling, ugly old man, staring at her rudely through his great tortoiseshell spectacles. “You can be of no use, sir,” she said, shortly. “The lady was killed when your troops shelled this cottage.” The Englishman started, and looked compassionately toward the bed. The German refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff, and put another question. “Has the body been examined by a medical man?” he asked. Mercy ungraciously limited her reply to the one necessary word “Yes.” The present surgeon was not a man to be daunted by a lady’s disapproval of him. He went on with his questions. “Who has examined the body?” he inquired next. Mercy answered, “The doctor attached to the French ambulance.” The German grunted in contemptuous disapproval of all Frenchmen, and all French institutions. The Englishman seized his first opportunity of addressing himself to Mercy once more. “Is the lady a countrywoman of ours?” he asked, gently. Mercy considered before she answered him. With the object she had in view, there might be serious reasons for speaking with extreme caution when she spoke of Grace. “I believe so,” she said. “We met here by accident. I know nothing of her.” “Not even her name?” inquired the German surgeon. Mercy’s resolution was hardly equal yet to giving her own name openly as the name of Grace. She took refuge in flat denial. “Not even her name,” she repeated obstinately. The old man stared at her more rudely than ever, considered with himself, and took the candle from the table. He hobbled back to the bed and examined the figure laid on it in silence. The Englishman continued the conversation, no longer concealing the interest that he felt in the beautiful woman who stood before him. “Pardon me,” he said, “you are very young to be alone in war-time in such a place as this.”