In June, Claude Pincent was killed in Mesopotamia. A week after he was killed, they gave him a V.C. We had not seen him for a long time; people said that he had taken to drink or drugs or something, but I don’t suppose it was true.
Then Anthony Cowper was killed. He was a dear, merry fellow and enjoyed his life.
‘Guy will miss him very much,’ I thought.
Freddy Furze came home on leave in July. We saw him several times. I felt since George’s death, the precariousness of life and was grateful for people still alive.
In August, Rachel was born. I had hoped again for a son, but I minded less this time; perhaps because I had expected less, and had felt less about it altogether. I had been afraid that the baby must be affected by the War, and by my own state of mind all through the winter, but she was a fine child, even larger and stronger than the first.
Mrs. Sebright came to stay and look after Eleanor while I was in bed. She was very competent and managed Eleanor very well. She looked after the house too, and ordered the meals, and I had nothing to do; and I thought:
‘If only I could lie here for ever, and never get up and never have to go out into the world again.’
I did not want to read or even talk very much, only lie still and do nothing; and sometimes for nothing at all, I would lie and cry.
And then Hugo came home on leave, and I did not see him.
I did not know he was coming, and he came to see me.