Sunday wasn’t such a nasty day as I usually have—­in fact, Sunday never is.  But that station, with its glaring hot platform, its hotter kitchen, and its smells, takes a bit of sticking.  I have discovered one thing about Belgium.  Everything smells exactly alike.  To-day there have been presented to my nose four different things purporting to have different odours, drains, some cheese, tobacco, and a bunch of lilac.  There was no difference at all in the smells!

[Page Heading:  WAR WEARINESS]

I am much struck by the feeling of sheer weariness and disgust at the war which prevails at present.  People are “soul sick” of it.  A man told me last night that he longed to be wounded so that he might go home honourably.  Amongst all the volunteer corps I notice the same thing.  “Fed up” is the expression they all use, fed up with the suffering they see, fed up even with red crosses and khaki.

When one thinks of primrose woods at home, and birds singing, and apple-blossom against blue sky, and the park with its flower-beds newly planted, and the fresh-watered streets, and women in pretty dresses—­but one mustn’t!

6 May.—­Mrs. Guest arrived here to stay yesterday, and her chauffeur, Mr. Wood, dined here.  It is nice to be no longer quite alone.  Last night we were talking about how horrible war is.  Mrs. Guest told me of a sight she had herself seen.  Some men, horribly wounded, were being sent away by rail in a covered waggon ("fourgon").  One man had only his mouth left in his face.  He was raving mad, and raged up and down the van, trampling on other men’s wounded and broken limbs.

Certainly war is a pretty game, and we must go on singing “Tipperary,” and saying what fun it is.  A young friend of mine at home gave me a pamphlet (price 2d.) written by a spinster friend of hers who had never left England, proving what a good thing this war was for us all.  When I said I saw another aspect of it, the kind, soothing suggestion was that I must be a little over-tired.

7 May.—­They say La Panne is to be bombarded to-day.  The Queen has left.  Some people fussed a good deal, but if one bothered one’s poor head about every rumour of this sort (mostly “dropped from a German aeroplane”) where would one be?

I was much touched when some people at home clubbed together and sent me out a little car a short time ago.  But, alas! it had not been chosen with judgment, and is no use.  It has been rather a bother to me, and now it must go back.  Mr. Carlile drove it up from Dunkirk, and it broke down six times, and then had to be left in a ditch while he got another car to tow it home.  Since then it has lain at the station.

I can’t get anyone to come and inspect it.  The extraordinary habit which prevails here of saying “No” to every request makes things difficult, for no privileges can be bought.  Sometimes, when I hear people ask for the salt, I fancy the answer will be, “Certainly not.”  Two of our own chauffeurs live quite close to the station:  they say they are busy, and can’t look at my car.  One smiles, and says:  “When you have time I shall be so grateful, etc.”  Inwardly one is feeling that if one could roar just for once it would be a relief.