The young Englishman, whose eyes had remained riveted in
admiration on Mercy, drew the canvas screen over the doorway and
respectfully addressed her in the French language.
"May I ask if I am speaking to a French lady?" he said.
"I am an Englishwoman," Mercy replied.
The surgeon heard the answer. Stopping short on his way to the
bed, he pointed to the recumbent figure on it, and said to Mercy,
in good English, spoken with a strong German accent.
"Can I be of any use there?"
His manner was ironically courteous, his harsh voice was pitched
in one sardonic monotony of tone. Mercy took an instantaneous
dislike to this hobbling, ugly old man, staring at her rudely
through his great tortoiseshell spectacles.
"You can be of no use, sir," she said, shortly. "The lady was
killed when your troops shelled this cottage."
The Englishman started, and looked compassionately toward the
bed. The German refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff, and put
another question.
"Has the body been examined by a medical man?" he asked.
Mercy ungraciously limited her reply to the one necessary word
"Yes."
The present surgeon was not a man to be daunted by a lady's
disapproval of him.
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