Jeanne said nothing. What was the good? She shifted the invalid's hot pillow and gave her a drink of tisane, moving about the over-furnished, airless room in her calm and efficient way. Her face showed no sign of trouble, but an iron band clamped her forehead above her burning eyes. She could perform her nurse's duties, but it was beyond her power to concentrate her mind on the sick woman's unending litany of grievances. Far away beyond that darkened room, beyond that fretful voice, she saw vividly a hot waste, hideous with holes and rusted wire and shapes of horror; and in the middle of it lay huddled up a little khaki-clad figure with the sun blazing fiercely in his unblinking eyes. And his very body was beyond the reach of man, even of the most lion-hearted. "_Mais qu'as-tu, ma fille?_" asked Aunt Morin. "You do not speak. When people are ill they need to be amused." "I am sorry, _ma tante_, but I am not feeling very well to-day. It will pass." "I hope so. Young people have no business not to feel well. Otherwise what is the good of youth?" "It is true," Jeanne assented. But what, she thought, was indeed the good of youth, in these terrible days of war? Her own was but a panorama of death.... And now one more figure, this time one of youth too, had joined it. Toinette came in. "Ma'amselle Jeanne, there are two English officers downstairs who wish to speak to you." "What do they want?" Jeanne asked wearily. "They do not say. They just ask for Ma'amselle Bossiere." "They never leave one in peace, _ces gens-la_," grumbled Aunt Morin. "If they want more concessions in price, do not let them frighten you. Go to Monsieur le Maire to have it arranged with justice. These people would eat the skin off your back. Remember, Jeanne." "_Bien, ma tante_," said Jeanne. She went downstairs, conscious of gripping herself in order to discuss with the officers whatever business of billeting was in hand. For she had dealt with all such matters since her arrival in Frelus. She reached the front door and saw a dusty car with a military chauffeur at the wheel and two officers, standing on the pavement at the foot of the steps. One she recognized as the commander of the company to which her billeted men belonged. The other was a stranger, a lieutenant, with a different badge on his cap. They were talking and laughing together, like old friends newly met, which by one of the myriad coincidences of the war was really the case. On the appearance of Jeanne they drew themselves up and saluted politely. "Mademoiselle Bossiere?" "_Oui, monsieur._" Then, "Will you enter, messieurs?" They entered the vestibule where the great cask gleamed in its polished mahogany and brass. She bade them be seated. "Mademoiselle, Captain Willoughby tells me that you had billeted here last week a soldier by the name of Trevor," said the stranger, in excellent French, taking out notebook and pencil. Jeanne's lips grew white. She had not suspected their errand.