Everyone I met in England seemed absorbed in pale children with adenoids.  No one cared much about the war.  Children in houses nowadays require food at weird hours, not roast mutton and a good plain Christian pudding, but, “You will excuse our beginning, I know, dear, Jane has to have her massage after lunch, and Tom has to do his exercises, and baby has to learn to breathe.”  This one has its ears strapped, and that one is “nervous” and must be “understood,” and nothing is talked of but children.  My mother would never have a doctor in the house; “nervousness” was called bad temper, and was dosed, and stooping was called “a trick,” and was smacked.  The children I now see eat far too much, and when they finish off lunch with gravy drunk out of tumblers it makes me feel very unwell.

I went to the Breitmeyers, at Rushton Hall, Kettering; it’s a fine place, but I was too tired to enjoy anything but a bed.  The next Sunday I stayed at Chenies, with the Duchess of Bedford—­always a favourite resort of mine—­and another week I went to Welwyn.

I met a few old men at these places, but no one else.  Everyone is at the front.  The houses generally have wounded soldiers in them, and these play croquet with a nurse on the lawn, or smoke in the sun.  None of them want to go back to fight.  They seem tired, and talk of the trenches as “proper ’ell.”

There is always a little too much walking about at a “week-end.”  One feels tired and stiff on Monday.  I well remember last summer having to take people three times to a distant water garden—­talking all the time, too!  People are so kind in making it pleasant that they wear one out.

[Page Heading:  ERITH]

All the time I was in London I was preparing my campaign of lecturing.  I began with Vickers-Maxim works at Erith, on Wednesday, 9th June, and on the 8th I went to stay with the Cameron Heads.  There was great bustle and preparation for my lecture, Press people in the house at all hours of the day, and so on.  A great bore for my poor friends; but they were so good about it, and I loved being with them.

The lecture was rather a red-letter occasion for me, everyone praising, the Press very attentive, etc., etc.  The audience promised well for future things, and the emotion that was stirred nearly bowled myself over.  In some of the hushes that came one could hear men crying.  The Scott Gattys and a few of my own friends came to “stand by,” and we all drove down to Erith in motor-cars, and returned to supper with the Vickers at 10.30.

The next day old Vickers sent for me and asked me to name my own price for my lectures, but I couldn’t mix money up with the message, so I refused all pay, and feel happy that I did so.  I can’t, and won’t, profit by this war.  I’d rather lose—­I am losing—­but that doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters much now.  The former things are swept away, and all the old barriers are disappearing.  Our old gods of possession and wealth are crumbling, and class distinctions don’t count, and even life and death are pretty much the same thing.