“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.”