found it. It not only cheered me but gave me the first real ray of
hope. There in print was all Captain C. had told me the night before,
and somehow, to see a thing in print is doubly convincing. It was on
disabled soldiers and the pluck with which they bore their misfortunes.

There was one story of two of his friends who walked into his
dressing-room one day. After dancing about the place they told him they
were out of the army.

"I don't see much wrong with you," said G., eyeing them up and down.
They then whacked their legs soundly and never flinched once, for they
each had an artificial one! I blessed George from the bottom of my
heart. Someone told him this, and he promptly sat down and wrote to me,
enclosing several signed postcards and a drawing of himself at the end
of the letter--his own impression of what he looked like in the
pre-historic scene in _Zigzag_--and a promise of a box for the show as
soon as I got to Blighty. Some jolly good fellow!

The countless flowers I received were one of the chief joys. I simply
adored lying and looking at them.

Every single person I knew seemed to have remembered me, and boxes of
chocolates filled my shelf as well.

The Parc d'Automobiles Belges sent such a huge _gerbe_ that two men had
to carry it, and, emblazoned on a broad ribbon of the Belgian colours,
spanning the whole thing, was my name and an inscription in letters of
gold! Captain Saxon Davies, from the "Christol" in Boulogne, had fruit
sent over in the boat from Covent Garden delivered at the hospital every
morning by motor cycle. I felt quite overwhelmed; everyone seemed
determined to spoil me.

One day the Padre had come in to see me and was just concluding a prayer
when there was a tap, and the door opened on the instant. A large
bottle, the size of a magnum, was pushed in by an orderly, who, seeing
the Padre, departed in haste. (I was squinting up through my eyelashes
and saw it all and just pulled myself together in time to say "Amen.")

I knew who had sent it and hastened to explain: "It's not champagne,
Padre, it's Eau de Cologne!" That surprising sportsman replied: "Isn't
it? Bad luck. Have you a scent spray? No? Well, I'll get you one!" (Some
Padre!)

On the Sunday one of my people came over, thanks to the cheery telegrams
the War Office had been dispatching. It seemed an unnecessary fuss--the
Colonel, too, showed distinct signs of "needle"--but it was a dear
little Aunt who is never flustered