He turned and looked at her.
“Why?”
“You must have been so many horrible sights—so many dead people, and yet—”
“Well?” he persisted.
“There was something in your face when the man staggered back, a kind of horror almost. I am sure you felt it quite as much as any of us.”
He was silent for a moment.
“In a battlefield,” he observed slowly, “one naturally becomes a little callous, but here it is different. The fellow did look ghastly ill, didn’t he? I wonder what was really the matter with him.”
“We shall know when Major Thomson returns,” she said.
Granet seemed scarcely to hear her words. A curious fit of abstraction had seized him. His head was turned towards the corridor, he seemed to be waiting.
“Queer sort of stick, Thomson,” he remarked presently. “Is he a great friend of yours, Miss Conyers?”