“What's the matter with him?”      

       “Wounded.”      

       “Are you sure?”      

       “Sure!” cried D'Hubert. “I come from there.”      

       “That's amusing,” said the elderly surgeon. Amusing was his favourite word; but the expression of his face when he pronounced it never corresponded. He was a stolid man. “Come in,” he added. “I'll get ready in a moment.”      

       “Thanks. I will. I want to wash my hands in your room.”      

       Lieutenant D'Hubert found the surgeon occupied in unscrewing his flute and packing the pieces methodically in a velvet-lined case. He turned his head.     

       “Water there—in the corner. Your hands do want washing.”      

       “I've stopped the bleeding,” said Lieutenant D'Hubert. “But you had better make haste. It's rather more than ten minutes ago, you know.”      

       The surgeon did not hurry his movements.     

       “What's the matter? Dressing came off? That's amusing. I've been busy in the hospital all day, but somebody has told me that he hadn't a scratch.”      

       “Not the same duel probably,” growled moodily Lieutenant D'Hubert, wiping his hands on a coarse towel.     

       “Not the same.... What? Another? It would take the very devil to make me go out twice in one day.” He looked narrowly at Lieutenant D'Hubert. “How did you come by that scratched face? Both sides too—and symmetrical. It's amusing.”      

       “Very,” snarled Lieutenant D'Hubert. “And you will find his slashed arm amusing too. It will keep both of you amused for quite a long time.”      

       The doctor was mystified and impressed by the brusque bitterness of Lieutenant D'Hubert's tone. They left the house 

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