Oct. 16.—­Saw Q.M.S.  Beddem on the other side of the road and gave him an absolutely new thrill by crossing to meet him.  Asked diffidently—­as diffidently as he could, that is—­how many men my house would hold.  Replied eight—­or ten at a pinch.  He gave me a surprised and beaming smile and whipped out a huge note-book.  Informed him with as much regret as I could put into a voice not always under perfect control, that I had already got an officer.  Q.M.S., favouring me with a look very appropriate to the Devil’s Own, turned on his heel and set off in pursuit of a lady-billetee, pulling up short on the threshold of the baby-linen shop in which she took refuge.  Left him on guard with a Casablanca-like look on his face.

Nov. 1.—­Lieut.  True Born took up his quarters with us.  Gave him my dressing-room for bedchamber.  Was awakened several times in the night by what I took to be Zeppelins, flying low.

Nov. 2.—­Lieut.  True Born offered to bet me five pounds to twenty that the war would be over by 1922.

Nov. 3.—­Offered to teach me auction-bridge.

Nov. 4.—­Asked me whether I could play “shove ha’penny.”

Nov. 10.—­Lieut.  True Born gave one of the regimental horses a riding-lesson.  Came home grumpy and went to bed early.

Nov. 13.—­Another riding-lesson.  Over-heard him asking one of the maids whether there was such a thing as a water-bed in the house.

Nov. 17.—­Complained bitterly of horse-copers.  Said that his poor mount was discovered to be suffering from saddle-soreness, broken wind, splints, weak hocks, and two bones of the neck out of place.

Dec. 9.—­7 p.m.—­One of last year’s billets, Private Merited, on leave from a gunnery course, called to see me and to find out whether his old bed had improved since last year.  Left his motor-bike in the garage, and the smell in front of the dining-room window.

8 to 12 p.m.—­Sat with Private Merited, listening to Lieut.  True Born on the mistakes of Wellington.

12.5 a.m.—­Rose to go to bed.  Was about to turn out gas in hall when I discovered the lieutenant standing with his face to the wall playing pat-a-cake with it.  Gave him three-parts of a tumbler of brandy.  Said he felt better and went upstairs.  Arrived in his bed-room, he looked about him carefully, and then, with a superb sweep of his left arm, swept the best Chippendale looking-glass in the family off the dressing table and dived face down-wards to the floor, missing death and the corner of the chest of drawers by an inch.

12:15 a.m.—­Rolled him on to his back and got his feet on the bed.  They fell off again as soon as they were cleaner than the quilt.  The lieutenant, startled by the crash, opened his eyes and climbed into bed unaided.

12.20 a.m.—­Sent Private Merited for the M.O., Captain Geranium.

12.25 a.m.—­Mixed a dose of brandy and castor-oil in a tumbler.  Am told it slips down like an oyster that way—­bad oyster, I should think.  Lieut.  True Born jibbed.  Reminded him that England expects that every man will take his castor-oil.  Reply unprintable.  Apologized a moment later.  Said that his mind was wandering and that he thought he was a colonel.  Reassured him.