“Tuppence” did not take at all kindly to the new order of things; he missed chasing the mice that used to live under the tent boards and other minor attractions of the sort.

The draughtiness and civilization of the new huts compared with the “fug” of the tents all combined to give us chills!  I had a specially bad one, and managed with great skill to wangle a fortnight’s sick leave in Paris.

The journey had not increased much in speed since my last visit, but everything in Paris itself had assumed a much more normal aspect.  The bridge over the Oise had long since been repaired, and hardly a shop remained closed.  I went to see my old friend M. Jollivet at Neuilly, and had the same little English mare to ride in the Bois, and also visited many of the friends I had made during my first leave there.

I got some wonderful French grey Ripolin sort of stuff from a little shop in the “Boul’ Mich” with which to tone down the violent green in my hut, that had almost driven me mad while I lay ill in bed.

The Convoy was gradually being enlarged, and a great many new drivers came out from England just after I got back.  McLaughlan gave me a great welcome when I went for the washing that afternoon.  “It’s good to see you back, Miss,” he said, “the driver they put on the lorry was very slow and cautious—­you know the ’en we always try to catch?  Would you believe it we slowed down to walking pace so as to miss ’er!” and he sniffed disgustedly.

The news of the battle of Jutland fell like a bombshell in the camp owing to the pessimistic reports first given of it in the papers.  A witty Frenchman once remarked that in all our campaigns we had only won one battle, but that was the last, and we felt that however black things appeared at the moment we would come out on top in the end.  The news of Kitchener’s death five days later plunged the whole of the B.E.F. into mourning, and the French showed their sympathy in many touching ways.

One day to my sorrow I heard that the little Mors lorry was to be done away with, owing to the shortage of petrol that began to be felt about this time, and that horses and G.S. wagons were to draw rations, etc., instead.  It had just been newly painted and was the joy of my heart—­however mine was not to reason why, and in due course Red Cross drivers appeared with two more ambulances from the Boulogne depot, and they made the journey back in the little Mors.

It was then that “Susan” came into being.

The two fresh ambulances were both Napiers, and I hastily consulted Brown (the second mechanic who had come to assist Kirkby as the work increased) which he thought was the best one. (It was generally felt I should have first choice to console me for the loss of the little Mors.)