I wonder if in years to come we shall remember the queer recklessness which has developed in almost everyones mentality, or shall we forget about the war and go on just as we were before—Who knows?
I said to Miss Sharp this morning—
"What do you do in the evenings when you leave here"?
I had forgotten for a moment that Maurice had told me that she makes bandages. She looked at me and her manner froze—I can't think why I felt she thought I had no right to question her—I say "looked at me"—but I am never quite sure what her eyes are doing, because she never takes off her yellow glasses—Those appear to be gazing at me at all events.
"Aren't you dead tired after working all day with me?"
"I have not thought about it—the bandages are badly needed."
Her pencil was in her hand, and the block ready—she evidently did not mean to go on conversing with me. This attitude of continuous diligence on her part has begun to irritate me. She never fidgets—just works all the time.
I'll ask Burton what he thinks of her at luncheon to-day—As I said before, Burton knows the world.
"What do you think of my typist, Burton?"