So the day began, and it did not improve.  I was sick all the time until I could neither think nor see.  The poor prince could do nothing, of course.

[Page Heading:  ILLNESS AT KASVIN]

At last we came to a rest-house, and I felt I could go no further.  I was quite unconscious for a time.  Then they told me it was only two hours to Kasvin, and somehow they got me on board the motor-car, and the horrible journey began again.  Every time the car bumped I was sick.  Of course we punctured a tyre, which delayed us, and when we got into Kasvin it was 9 o’clock.  The Tartar lifted me out of the car, and I had been told that I might put up at a room belonging to Dr. Smitkin, but where it was I had no idea, and I knew there would be no one there.  So I plucked up courage to go to the only English people in the place—­the Goodwins, with whom I had stayed on my way up—­and ask for a bed.  This I did, and they let me spread my camp-bed in his little sitting-room.  I was ill indeed, and aching in every bone.

The next day I had to go to Smitkin’s room.  It was an absolutely bare apartment, but someone spread my bed for me, and there were some Red Cross nurses who all offered to do things.  The one thing I wanted was food, and this they could only get at the soldiers’ mess two miles away.  So all I had was one tin of sweet Swiss milk.  The day after this I decided I must quit, whatever happened, and get to Tehran, where there are hotels.  After one night there I was taken to a hospital.  I was alone in Persia, in a Russian hospital, where few people even spoke French!

On March 19th an English doctor rescued me.  He heard I was ill, and came to see me, and took me off to be with his wife at his own home at the Legation.  I shall never forget it as long as I live—­the blessed change from dirty glasses and tin basins and a rocky bed!  What does illness matter with a pretty room, and kindness showered on one, and everything clean and fragrant?  I have a little sitting-room, where my meals are served, and I have a fire, a bath, and a garden to sit in.

God bless these good people!

* * * * *

[Page Heading:  A LETTER FROM TEHRAN]

To Lady Clementine Waring.

BRITISH LEGATION, TEHRAN,
22 March.

DARLING CLEMMIE,

I am coming home, having fallen sick.  Do you know, I was thinking about you so much the other night, for you told me that if ever I was really “down and out” you would know.  So I wondered if, about a week ago, you saw a poor small person (who has shrunk to about half her size!) in an empty room, feeling worth nothing at all, and getting nothing to eat and no attention!  Persia isn’t the country to be ill in.  I was taken to the Russian hospital—­which is an experience I don’t want to repeat!—­but now I am in the hands of the Legation doctor, and he is going to nurse me till I am well enough to go home.