"I remember," he told her, "as though it were yesterday, the first time I
ever saw you. I was brought into Étaples. It wasn't much of a wound but
it was painful. I remember seeing you in that white stone hall, in your
cool Sister's dress. After the dust and horror of battle there seemed to
be nothing in that wonderful hospital of yours but sunlight and white
walls and soft voices. I watched your face as you listened to the details
about my case--and I forgot the pain. In the morning you came to see how
I was, and most mornings afterwards."

"I am glad that you remember," she murmured.

"I have forgotten nothing," he went on. "I think that those ten days of
convalescence out in the gardens of your villa and down by the sea were
the most wonderful days I ever spent."

"I love to hear you say so," she confessed.

"Out there," he continued, "the whole show was hideous from beginning to
end, a ghastly, terrible drama, played out amongst all the accompaniments
which make hell out of earth. And yet the thing gripped. The tragedy of
Ypres came and I escaped from the hospital."

"You were not fit to go. They all said that."

"I couldn't help it," he answered. "The guns were there, calling, and
one forgot. I've been back to England three times since then, and each
time one thought was foremost in my mind--'shall I meet Sister
Josephine?'"

"But you never even made enquiries," she reminded him. "At my hospital I