She began with the old formula.  “You won’t know me, etc., but I’m so-and-so.”  She did not pause for breath, but went straight ahead.  “It’s the second time I’ve been to call on you,” she said, in an aggrieved voice.  “I came three weeks ago when you were at ——­ Hospital.  You had just had an operation and were coming round, and would you believe it, though I had come all the way from West Kensington, they wouldn’t let me come up and see you—­positively rude the boy was at the door.” (I uttered a wordless prayer for Tommy!)

“It was very kind of you,” I murmured, “but I hardly think you would have liked to see me just then; I wasn’t looking my best.  Chloroform has become one of my betes noires.”  “Oh, I shouldn’t have minded,” said the lady; “I thought it was so inconsiderate of them not to let me up.  So sad for you, you lost your foot,” she chattered on, eyeing the cradle with interest.  I winked at my cousin, a low habit but excusable on occasions.  We did not enlighten her it was more than the foot.  Then I was put through the usual inquisition, except that it was if possible a little more realistic than usual.  “Did it bleed?” she asked with gusto.  I began to enjoy myself (one gets hardened in time).  “Fountains,” I replied, “the ground is still discoloured, and though they have dug it over several times it’s no good—­it’s like Rizzio’s blood at Holyrood, the stain simply won’t go away!” My cousin hastily sneezed.  “How very curious,” said the lady, “so interesting to hear all these details first hand!  Young man,” and she fixed Eric with her lorgnettes, “have you been wounded—­I see no stripe on your arm?” and she eyed him severely.  Now E. has always had a bit of a stammer, but at times it becomes markedly worse.  We were both enjoying ourselves tremendously:  “N-n-n-no,” he replied, “s-s-s-shell s-s-s-shock!”

“Dear me, however did that happen?” she asked.  “I w-w-was b-b-b-blown i-i-i-into t-t-t-the air,” he replied, smiling sweetly.

“How high?” asked the lady, determined to get to the bottom of it, and not at all sure in her own mind he wasn’t a conscientious objector masquerading in uniform.  “As all t-t-the other m-m-men were k-k-killed b-b-b-by t-t-t-the same s-s-shell, t-t-there was n-n-no one t-t-there t-t-t-to c-c-c-count,” he replied modestly. (I knew the whole story of how he had been left for two whole days in No-man’s-land, with Boche shells dropping round the place where he was lying, and could have killed her cheerfully if the whole thing had not been so funny.)

Having gleaned more lurid details with which we all too willingly supplied her, she finally departed.

“Fierce by name and fierce by nature,” I said, as the door closed.  “I wonder sometimes if those women spend all their time rushing from bed to bed asking the men to describe all they’ve been through—­I feel like writing to John Bull about it,” I added, “but I don’t believe the average person would believe it.  Tact seems to be a word unknown in some vocabularies.”  The cream of the whole thing was that, not content with the information she had gleaned, when she got downstairs, she asked to see my nurse.  The poor thing was having tea at the time, but went running down in case it was something important.