I can’t tell you,” I replied, “but you can have it back” (graciously), “and look here, it wasn’t your batman, so rest easy.”  He was too wise to ask unnecessary questions (one didn’t in France), and only too thankful to get his Primus, which he joyfully carried back in state.  It was a pity about it, because they were impossible to get at that time, and our huts had already been raided for electric kettles.

Gothas came frequently to visit us at night and terrible scenes took place, during which we were ordered out amid the dropping bombs to carry the injured to hospital, but more often than not to collect the dead, or what was left of them.

One morning I was in great distress, for I lost my purse through the lining of my wolf-coat.  It was not the loss of the purse that worried me, but the fact that I always kept the little medal of the Virgin and Child in there, given me by the old Scotch nun in Paris “for protection.”  “Eva,” I called, “I’ve lost my luck—­that little charm I had given me in 1915—­I do wish I hadn’t.  I’m not superstitious in the ordinary way, but I kind of believe in that thing;” she only laughed however.  But I took the trouble to advertise for it in the local paper—­unfortunately with no result.  I was very distressed.

Our concert party got really quite a slap-up show going about this time.  We also had a drop scene behind—­a huge white linen sheet on which we appliqued big black butterflies fluttering down to a large sunflower in the corner, the petals of which were the same yellow as the bobbles on our dresses.  We came to the conclusion that something of the sort was necessary, for as often as not we had to perform in front of puce-coloured curtains that hardly showed us up to the best advantage.

One of the best shows we ever gave I think was for the M.T. depot.  They did so much for us one way and another repairing cars (not to mention details like the foot pump episode), that we were only too glad to do something for them in return.  The piece de resistance (at least, Dicky and I thought so) was a skit we got up on one of “Lena’s” concert party stars—­a ventriloquist stunt.  We thought of it quite suddenly and only had time for one rehearsal before the actual performance.  I paid a visit to Corporal Coy of the mortuary (one of the local low comedians, who, like the coffin-cart man at Lamarck, “had a merry eye!” and was a recognized past-master in the art of make-up), and borrowed his little bowler hat for the occasion.  He listened solemnly to the scheme, and insisted on making me a fascinating little Charlie Chaplin moustache (the requisites for which he kept somewhere in the mortuary with the rest of his disguises!) and he then taught me to waggle it with great skill!