As I was driven out of the station—­it was Charing Cross—­the old flower women were loud in their exclamations.  “Why, it’s a dear little girl!” cried one, and she bombarded Thompson with questions. (I felt the complete fool!) “Bin drivin’ the boys, ’as she?  Bless ’er,” and they ran after the car, throwing in whole bunches of roses galore!  I could have hugged them for it, dear fat old things!  They did their bit as much as any of them, and never failed to throw their choicest roses to “the boys” in the ambulances as they were driven slowly past.

My troubles, I am sorry to say, began from then onwards.  England seemed quite unprepared for anything so unorthodox, and the general impression borne in on me was that I was a complete nuisance.  There was no recognized hospital for “the likes of us” to go to, and I was taken to a civilian one where war-work seemed entirely at a discount.  I was carried to a lift and jerked up to the top floor by a housemaid, when I was put on a trolley and taken into a ward full of people.  A sister came forward, but there was no smile on her face and not one word of welcome, and I began to feel rather chilled.  “Put the case there,” she said, indicating an empty bed, and the “case,” feeling utterly miserable and dejected, was deposited!  The rattle and noise of that ward was such a contrast to my quiet little room in France (rather humorous this) that I woke with a jump whenever I closed my eyes.

Presently the matron made her rounds, and very luckily found there was a vacant room, and I was taken into it forthwith.  There was a notice painted on the wall opposite to the effect that the bed was “given in remembrance” of the late so-and-so of so-and-so—­with date and year of death, etc.  I can see it now.  If only it had been on the door outside for the benefit of the visitors!  It had the result of driving “the case” almost to the verge of insanity.  I could say the whole thing backwards when I’d been in the room half an hour, not to mention the number of letters and the different words one could make out of it!  There was no other picture in the room, as the walls were of some concrete stuff, so, try as one would, it was impossible not to look at it.  “Did he die in this bed?” I asked interestedly of the sister, nodding in the direction of the “In Memoriam.”—­“I’m sure I don’t know,” said she, eyeing me suspiciously.  “We have enough to do without bothering about things like that,” and she left the room.  I began to feel terribly lonely; how I missed all my friends and the cheerful, jolly orderlies in France!  The frowsy housemaid who brought up my meals was anything but inspiring.  My dear little “helpless” shirt was taken away and when I was given a good stuff nightdress in its place, I felt my last link with France had gone!

The weather—­it was July then—­got terribly hot, and I lay and sweltered.  It was some relief to have all bandages removed from my right leg.