What do you think?  I lunched to-day with George.  We lunched in a most superb officers’ club, formerly the house of some Count or other:  all white and gold, and chandeliers and mirrors—­a dream.

December 8.

[Sidenote:  JEZEBEL ACCEPTS AN APOLOGY]

Our move has been postponed twice now, and we don’t go till Monday.

But meanwhile I heard from Mark to-day.  He is A.D.C. to the G.O.C., and apparently caught sight of Roger and me the other day, while flashing past in the G.O.C.’s car.  So we are going to have a great meeting.  It will be immense fun.  Mark, Dennis and I were all tremendous friends—­just the same type.

Swallow is much better, and Jezebel says that, if she had known Swallow would bleed so much, she would have kicked him in a different place, where he wouldn’t have bled so profusely.  This, for Jezebel, is extremely gracious.

Tank’s only remark about being put between the two was:  “Well, I’m always very glad to do what I’m told.”

Swallow is desperately sorry about the whole affair, and is on tenter-hooks lest Jezebel should never speak to him again.  He says she really didn’t mean to kick, and she can’t understand how it is that he has so little control over himself.  So all’s well.

December 9.

Hunt and Hale have made their very tumble-down barn a perfect model of neatness.  They sleep within about 3 yards of the horses’ heels.  Hunt in particular never likes to be far away from “my ’osses,” as he calls them.  I have less and less say in the matter of the ’osses as time goes on!  I merely say:  “Hunt, I want a horse and an orderly at 8 a.m. to-morrow.”

It’s useless for me to say I’d like Swallow or Tank or Jezebel, because, if I name one in particular, there’s always some reason why it would be better not to ride that one that day.  Oh, “she wants shoeing behind,” or, “she had one of her moods this morning, and so I exercised her very early,” or “he didn’t eat his corn, and had better stay in.”  So I just meekly ask for a horse.  And a horse arrives.

Swallow is still rather lame, but seems better now.  And the gentle influence of Tank is, I really believe, soothing Jezebel.  Tank is a very charming creature, and her perfect manners are a good example to the other two.  But—­what an awful admission!—­she is so good that I own I find her rather dull.  Poor little Tank!

Jorrocks has gone off to a nasty place, I fear, with his troop.  But all seems fairly quiet at present.

December 12.

The trek is at an end.

We have arrived at a place well behind the line, and not at all wrecked, except for holes here and there.  But the river!  Oh my aunt!  It’s marvellous.  It winds in and out of low hills, and as I saw it this evening, from an eminence, it looked more snaky than ever.  Huge great loops with the lovely pale sedges on either side.  The almost yellow hills are dotted with junipers.  I long to see it to-morrow morning.  There’s no doubt it’s one of the most fascinating rivers I’ve seen.  Hooded crows sailing over the uplands, and I met a flock of bright sweet goldfinches near some guns, and a tree-creeper in a copse.