Captain Pile sat reading through some documents, feeling a little wait would put his visitor in his place. His own civilian career had been sadly frustrating. An intolerance of sick humans had led him into various medical administrative jobs, an intolerance of even healthy ones had made all of them short. But in the Army he felt he was fulfilling himself, having command of all Service patients finding themselves in Smithers Botham and charge of the general running of the place. He rose, and inspected himself carefully in the gilt-framed mirror over the mantelpiece. Red-cheeked, dark-moustached, well built, if inclined to be stoutish for the late thirties, he felt he filled his new uniform stylishly. He placed his cap on his well-brilliantined head, took his gloves, leather-bound stick, and greatcoat, and opened the door on the hall.

'Mr Trevose?' He found the caller slight, pale, and fortyish, with large eyes in a large head, wearing under his overcoat a double-breasted chalk-striped grey flannel suit cut with smartness-flashiness, the captain might have said. 'I know nothing whatever about plastic surgery,' he told Graham proudly. 'And frankly I'm too busy to start learning such subjects now. I suppose you make women new noses and that sort of thing?'

'That sort of thing,' said Graham.

'Must be very profitable.'

They went on to the broad front steps, Captain Pile giving a quick glance up and down. There might be a soldier or two about to award him a salute. But there were no soldiers, only a schizophrenic cutting the grass. 'Annex D has been empty for a while,' he explained. 'It's not one of the best wards, but your other people from Blackfriars have bagged those already. I'm afraid you've rather missed the bus.'