have looked on at the sufferings of a mouse before the war—.

The sight in the hall when we did arrive there after the "all clear" went—was remarkable—the great glass doors of the salon blown in and all the windows broken—and the Place Vendôme a mass of debris—not a pane whole there I should think.

But nobody seems very much upset—these things are all in the days work—.

I wonder if in years to come we shall remember the queer recklessness which has developed in almost everyones mentality, or shall we forget about the war and go on just as we were before—Who knows?

 

I said to Miss Sharp this morning—

"What do you do in the evenings when you leave here"?

I had forgotten for a moment that Maurice had told me that she makes bandages. She looked at me and her manner froze—I can't think why I felt she thought I had no right to question her—I say "looked at me"—but I am never quite sure what her eyes are doing, because she never takes off her yellow glasses—Those appear to be gazing at me at all events.

"I make bandages."49

49

"Aren't you dead tired after working all day with me?"

"I have not thought about it—the bandages are badly needed."

Her pencil was in her hand, and the block ready—she evidently did not mean to go on conversing with me. This attitude of continuous diligence on her part has begun to irritate me. She never fidgets—just works all the time.

I'll ask Burton what he thinks of her at luncheon to-day—As I said before, Burton knows the world.

 

"What do you think of my typist, Burton?"

He was putting a dish of make-believe before me—it is a meatless day—my one-legged cook is an artist but he thinks me a fool because I won't let him cheat—our want of legs makes us friendly though.

"And with a brother in the trade I could get Monsieur chickens and what he would wish!" he expostulates each week.

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