I came back refreshed.  I think everyone (every woman) out here has noticed how indifferent and really “nasty” people are to each other at the front.  It is one of the singular things about the war, because one always hears it said that it is deepening people’s characters, purifying them, and so on.  As far as my experience goes, it has shown me the reverse.  I have seldom known so much quarrelling, and there is a sort of queer unhappiness which has nothing to do with the actual war or loss of friends.  I can’t be mistaken about it, because I see it on all sides.

At the ——­ hospital men and women alike are quarrelling all the time.  Resignations are frequent.  So-and-so has got So-and-so turned out; someone has written to the committee in London to report on someone else; a nice doctor is dismissed.  Every nurse has given notice at different times.  Most people are hurt and sore about something.  Love seems quite at a discount, and one can’t help wondering if Hate can be infectious!  It is all frightfully disappointing, for surely one’s heart beat high when one made up one’s mind to do what one could for suffering Belgium and for the sake of the English name.

Those two poor girls at ——!  I know they meant well, and had high ideas of what they were going to do.  Now they “use langwidge” to each other (although I know a very strong affection binds them), and very, very strong that language is.

Poor souls, the people here aren’t a bit happy.  I wonder if the work is sufficiently “sanctified.”  One never knows.  Lady Bagot’s is the happiest and most serene place here; her men are Church Army people, and they have evening prayers in the ward.  It does make a difference.

Scandals also exist out here, but they are merely silly, I think, and very unnecessary, though a little conventionality wouldn’t hurt anyone.  Sometimes I think it would be better if we were all at home, for Belgians are particular, and I hate breeches and gaiters for girls, and a silly way of going on.  I do wish people could sometimes leave sex at home, but they never seem to.  I wonder if Crusaders came back with scandals attached to their names!

I got back here in one of those rushes of work that come in war time when fighting is near.  At first no car could be spared to meet me at Boulogne, so I had to wait at the Hotel Maurice for two or three days.  I didn’t mind much as I met such a lot of English friends, and also visited some interesting hospitals; but I knew by the thousands of wounded coming in that things must be busy at the front, and this made one champ one’s bit.

The Canadians and English who poured in from Ypres were terribly damaged, and the asphyxiating gas seems to have been simply diabolical.  It was awful to see human beings so mangled, and I never get one bit accustomed to it.  The streets were full of British soldiers, and the hospitals swarmed with wounded.  I went to visit the Casino one.  The bright sun streamed through lowered blinds on hundreds of beds, and on stretchers lying between them.  Many Canadians were there, and rows of British.  God! how they were knocked about!  The vast rooms echoed to the cries of pain.  The men were vowing they could never face shells and hand grenades any more.  They were so newly wounded, poor boys; but they come up smiling when their country calls again.