[Illustration: Mat Weaving]

Her Majesty, Queen Mary, took an equally active interest in our hostel.
I met her under peculiar circumstances at the Bungalow. I had just
entered the Lounge from the Shorthand Room, when I heard the "Skipper"
calling me. I went up to him through an opening between a line of
chairs. When I reached Captain McMahon, he said: "Her Majesty, Queen
Mary, wishes to meet you, Rawlinson." And to the Queen he remarked:
"This is Rawlinson, who is learning to be a stenographer." Her Majesty
showed genuine interest in me, as she did in all the boys, and asked me
many questions about my wound, the circumstances under which I received
it, and what part of the line I was operating in when I was struck. She
then questioned me about the progress I was making with my work, and
about my life in the Bungalow. She finally complimented me on my ability
in finding my way about despite my handicap. It is not every day that a
private has the privilege of chatting familiarly with a queen, and in my
vanity I answered: "I know my surroundings at St. Dunstan's as well as I
do the palm of my hand." After a moment's silence, I asked Captain Mac
if that was all he wanted of me. He said that would do, and I turned to
depart. But while talking to the Queen I must have turned slightly
without knowing it, and I had lost my bearings. I stepped out boldly,
and tumbled clean over one of the chairs, and that after boasting to Her
Majesty that I knew the place "as well as I do the palm of my hand." It
was truly literally a case of pride going before a fall.

About half an hour later, I was going down the garden walk leading to
the Outer Circle, when I heard women's voices farther down the path. I
honk-honked--the usual signal of the boys when wishing the right of way.
Among the party in front of me was the Matron of the House, who said to
me: "Come on, Rawlinson, the way is all clear."

"Is that you, Matron," I replied; then, in a simulated injured tone, I
remarked that I had been talking to Queen Mary that afternoon, and:
"Would you believe it, Matron, she had not the good manners to shake
hands with a guy."

The Matron answered me in a somewhat flurried tone: "Her Majesty is
here, Rawlinson."

Needless to say, I was somewhat abashed. Canada had gone far beyond his
objective, as usual, but Canada was unfamiliar with retreat, and I
determined to stand by my guns.

"Well," said I, "will she shake hands now?"

"I surely wil