after he had been appointed physician, he entered the wards
and asked a nurse to fetch a screen so that he might examine a patient
in privacy.

"Students are not allowed to use screens," the young woman warned him
with some asperity in her voice.

If I were asked to state briefly the impression which remains with me
most firmly, I should say it was one of continuous laughter.
That is not true, of course, for in repose his face was heavy,
his countenance more than ruddy; it was even of a "choleric" cast,
and at times almost livid, especially when he was recovering
from one of those attacks of asthma from which he habitually suffered.
But his smile was his own, and it was ineffable. It filled the eyes,
and illumined the face. It was the smile of sheer fun, of pure gaiety,
of sincere playfulness, innocent of irony; with a tinge of sarcasm -- never.
When he allowed himself to speak of meanness in the profession,
of dishonesty in men, of evil in the world, his face became formidable.
The glow of his countenance deepened; his words were bitter,
and the tones harsh. But the indignation would not last. The smile would
come back. The effect was spoiled. Everyone laughed with him.

After his experience at the front the old gaiety never returned.
There were moments of irascibility and moods of irritation.
The desire for solitude grew upon him, and with Bonfire and Bonneau
he would go apart for long afternoons far afield by the roads and lanes
about Boulogne. The truth is: he felt that he and all had failed,
and that the torch was thrown from failing hands. We have heard much
of the suffering, the misery, the cold, the wet, the gloom of those
first three winters; but no tongue has yet uttered the inner misery of heart