Now that really is all my news, I think.  Empire is not made for nothing, and one sees some plucky lives in these out-of-the-way parts.  I did not take a fancy to my host at one house where we stayed, and something made me think his wife was bullied and not very happy.  A husband would have to be quite all right to compensate for exile, mud, and solitude.  Always my feeling is that we want far more people—­especially educated people, of course—­to run the world; yet we continue to shoot down our best and noblest, and when shall we ever see their like again?

Always, my dear,
Your loving
S. MACNAUGHTAN.

I hope to get over to Tehran on my “transport service,” and there I may find a mail.  Some people called ——­, living near Glasgow, had nine sons, eight of whom have been killed in the war.  The ninth is delicate, and is doing Red Cross work.

* * * * *

26 February.—­On Tuesday a Jew doctor took my motor-car by fraud, so there had to be an enquiry, and I don’t feel happy about it yet.  With Russians anything may happen.  I have begun to suffer from my chillsome time getting here, and also my mouth and chin are very bad; so I have had to lie doggo, and see an ancient Persian doctor, who prescribed and talked of the mission-field at the same time.

[Page Heading:  MISSIONARIES AND RELIGION]

I am struck by one thing, which is so naively expressed out here that it is very humorous, and that is the firm and formidable front which the best sort of men show towards religion.  To all of them it means missionaries and pious talk, and to hear them speak one would imagine it was something between a dangerous disease and a disgrace.  The best they can say of any clergyman (whom they loathe) or missionary, is, “He never tried the Gospel on with me.”  A religious young man means a sneak, and one who swears freely is generally rather a good fellow.  When one lives in the wilds I am afraid that one often finds that this view is the right one, although it isn’t very orthodox; but the pi-jaw which passes for religion seems deliberately calculated to disgust the natural man, who shows his contempt for the thing wholesomely as becomes him.  He means to smoke, he means to have a whisky-peg when he can get it, and a game of cards when that is possible.  His smoke is harmless, he seldom drinks too much, and he plays fair at all games, but when he finds that these harmless amusements preclude him from a place in the Kingdom of Heaven he naturally—­if he has the spirit of a mouse—­says, “All right.  Leave me out.  I am not on in this show.”

27 February.—­On Sunday one always thinks of home.  I am rather inclined to wonder what my family imagine I am actually doing on the Persian front.  No doubt some of my dear contemporaries saddle me with noble deeds, but I still seem unable to strike the “noble” tack.  Even my work in hospital has been stopped by a telegram from the Red Cross, saying, “Don’t let Miss Macnaughtan work yet.”  A typhus scare, I fancy.  Such rot.  But I am used now to hearing all the British out here murmur, “What can be the good of this long delay?”