The other day I heard some ladies having a rather forced discussion on moral questions, loud and frank....  Shades of my modest ancestresses!  Is this war time, and in a room filled with men and smoke and drink, are women in knickerbockers discussing such things?  I know I have got to “let out tucks,” but surely not quite so far!

Beautiful women and fast women should be chained up.  Let men meet their God with their conscience clear.  Most of them will be killed before the war is over.  Surely the least we can do is not to offer them temptation.  Death and destruction, and horror and wonderful heroism, seem so near and so transcendent, and then, quite close at hand, one finds evil doings.

[Page Heading:  A TREASURE]

14 May.—­I heard two little stories to-day, one of a British soldier limping painfully through Poperinghe with a horrid wound in his arm and thigh.

“You seem badly wounded,” a friend of mine said to him.

“Yus,” said the soldier; “there were a German, and he wounded me in three places, but”—­he drew from under his arm a treasure, and his poor dirty face was transformed by a delighted grin—­“I got his bloody helmet.”

Another story was of an English officer telephoning from a church-tower.  He gave all his directions clearly and distinctly, and never even hinted that the Germans had taken the town and were approaching the church.  He just went on talking, till at last, as the tramp of footsteps sounded on the belfry stairs, he said, “Don’t take any notice of any further information.  I am going.”  He went—­all the brave ones seem to go—­and those were the last words he spoke.

Rhodes Moorhouse flew low over the German lines the other day, in order to bombard the German station at Courtrai.  He planed down to 300 feet, and became the target for a hundred guns.  In the murderous fire he was wounded, and might have descended, but he was determined not to let the Germans have his machine.  He planed down to 100 feet in order to gather speed.  At this elevation he was hit again, and mortally wounded, but he flew on alone to the British lines—­like a shot bird heading for its own nest.  He didn’t even stop at the first aerodrome he came to, but sailed on—­always alone—­to his base, made a good landing, handed over his machine, and died.

In the hospitals what heroism one finds!  One splendid fellow of 6 feet 2 inches had both his legs and both his arms amputated.  He turned round to the doctor and said, smiling, “I shan’t have to complain of beds being too short now!” And when someone came and sat with him in his deadly pain, he remarked in his gentle way, “I am afraid I am taking up all your time.”  His old father and mother arrived after he was dead.

Ah! if one could hear more, surely one would do more!  But this hole-and-corner way of doing warfare damps all enthusiasm and stifles recruiting.  Why are we allowed to know nothing until the news is stale?  Yesterday I heard at first hand of the treatment of some civilians by Germans, and I visited a village to hear from the people themselves what had happened.