“Here! I say!” I called. “You’re not thinking of sending me to England, are you?”
“Don’t you want to go?” she asked.
“Don’t you know Lloyd George wants to kill me?” I asked, excitedly. “I thought you knew that! Everybody knows he hates me, and it is all Baylay’s fault.” Once on the subject of good old Baylay I could keep going like a Hyde Park orator, and I did.
Madame Paulus made one more effort to get my home address and failed. She succeeded better with Hill—he gave her some address in Australia.
“Shall I give your mother your love, Mr. Hill?” she asked.
“If you like,” Hill answered, without looking up from his Bible.
“But don’t you want to send your love?”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh, dear, dear me!”
The dear lady went away almost in tears. She had tried so hard, and had shown such a fine courage in that ward full of crazed men, and she thought it had all been in vain—that she could do nothing for us. It was hateful to let her go away like that, deceived and unthanked. Little she guessed what joy she had brought us. For all unwittingly she had given us the one piece of news for which we pined—we were to go Home—and in July! I know that Madame Paulus cheered many a sick prisoner in Constantinople, but never did she leave behind her two more grateful men than her lunatics of Haidar Pasha.