"Yes, in spite of his burns, he was doing quite well. And he was a lovely man. You must have seen that too. Never complaining, never thinking of himself. No trouble…"

She took a deep breath, a middle-aged woman who had seen so much suffering, and yet still felt the tragedy of this one man's death. Her hair was turning gray, and there were dark circles under her brown eyes. I thought she had lost weight since I'd seen her last.

"Well. You have made this journey for nothing. But I can tell you that the other patients you brought us have done better than expected. Still, when the winter rains begin-" She shook her head. I knew what she was dreading, the stress of days of dampness on damaged lungs.

"Thank you so much for seeing me, Matron. It must have been difficult."

"Yes, well. Sometimes talking about things helps. And you knew Lieutenant Evanson too."

She rose to walk with me to the door. "You are looking tired," she commented. "How long have you been in France?"

"Since late January. Before that I was on Britannic when she went down."

"Ah, yes, I recall. And you're going back to France now?"

"I'm told to report to a small hospital just outside St. Jacques." Which sounded more grand than it was. St. Jacques had all but ceased to exist, muddy ruins in the midst of fields that no longer grew anything, even weeds. "A forward dressing station," I added. "Though it calls itself a hospital."

She nodded. "Two of my nursing sisters have spent some time in France. They are very good at improvising."

We had reached the main door. I smiled. "We often have no choice."

"This is your driver?" she asked, looking out at the motorcar by the door. "I wish you a safe journey, my dear. If you-should you find that Mrs. Evanson's family would like to have that photograph, do let me know. It will set my mind at ease. I believe the obituary listed Little Sefton as their address. Sadly, that's not all that far from here, but it might as well be on the moon. They never came to visit, you see."