“Well, how are you feeling?”
The voice was so remote that Desmond paid no attention to it. But he was rather surprised to hear a voice reply, a voice that came from his own lips, curiously enough:
“Fine!”
So he opened his eyes again to ascertain the meaning of this phenomenon. This time the ogre-like face came into focus, and Desmond saw a man with a tumbler in his hand bending over him.
“That’s right,” said the man, looking very intently at him, “feel a bit better, eh? Got a bit of a crack, what? Just take a mouthful of brandy... I’ve got it here!”
Desmond obediently swallowed the contents of the glass that the other held to his lips. He was feeling horribly weak, and very cold. His collar and shirt were unbuttoned, and his neck and shoulders were sopping wet with water. On his ears still fell the wailing of the woman.
“Corporal,” said the man bending over him, “just go and tell that old hag to hold her noise! She’ll have to go out of the house if she can’t be quiet!”
Desmond opened his eyes again. He was lying on the settee in the library. A tall figure in khaki, who had been stirring the fire with his boot, turned at the doctor’s summons and left the room. On the table the lamp was still burning but its rays were neutralized by the glare of a crimson dawn which Desmond could see flushing the sky through the shattered panes of the French window. In the centre of the floor lay a long object covered by a tablecloth, beside it a table overturned with a litter of broken glass strewn about the carpet.
The woman’s sobbing ceased. The corporal came back into the room.
“She’ll be quiet now, sir,” he said, “I told her to get you and the gentlemen a cup o’ tea.”