"I think he must be."
"He is, he is!" whispered Mr. Matthews, "I've heard him before."
They know so little about each other, and they don't ask. It is only I who wonder—I, a woman, and therefore of the old, burnt-out world. These men watch without curiosity, speak no personalities, form no sets, express no likings, analyse nothing. They are new-born; they have as yet no standards and do not look for any.
Ah, to have had that experience too!... I am of the old world.
Again and again I realize, "A nation in arms...."
Watchmakers, jewellers, station-masters, dress-designers, actors, travellers in underwear, bank clerks ... they come here in uniforms and we put them into pyjamas and nurse them; and they lie in bed or hobble about the ward, watching us as we move, accepting each other with the unquestioning faith of children.
The outside world has faded since I have been in the hospital. Their world is often near me—their mud and trenches, things they say when they come in wounded.
The worst of it is it almost bores me to go to London, and London was always my Mecca. It is this garden at home, I think. It is so easy not to leave it.
When you wake up the window is full of branches, and last thing at night the moon is on the snow on the lawn and you can see the pheasants' footmarks.
Then one goes to the hospital....