back in
the Corps, which belongs to Mr. Grierson, I have time to realize how
funny we all are. Everybody in the hospital is in uniform, of course.
The nurses of the Belgian Red Cross wear white linen overalls with the
brassard on one sleeve, and the Red Cross on the breasts of their
overalls, and over their foreheads on the front of their white linen
veils. The men wear military or semi-military uniforms. We had never
agreed as to our uniform, and some of us had had no time to get it, if
we had agreed. Assembled in the vestibule, we look more like a party of
refugees, or the cast of a Barrie play, than a field ambulance corps.
Mr. Grierson, the Chaplain, alone wears complete khaki, in which he is
indistinguishable from any Tommy. The Commandant, obeying some
mysterious inspiration, has left his khaki suit behind. He wears a
Norfolk jacket and one of his hats. Mr. Foster in plain clothes, with a
satchel slung over his shoulders, has the air of an inquiring tourist.
Mrs. Torrence and Janet McNeil in short khaki tunics, khaki putties, and
round Jaeger caps, and very thick coats over all, strapped in with
leather belts, look as if they were about to sail on an Arctic
expedition; I was told to wear dark blue serge, and I wear it
accordingly; Ursula Dearmer and Mrs. Lambert are in normal clothes. But
the amiable officials and the angelic Belgian ladies behave as if there
was nothing in the least odd about our appearance. They remember only
that we are English and that it is now six o'clock and that we have had
no tea. They conceive this to be the most deplorable fate that can
overtake the English, and they hurry us into the great kitchen to a
round table, loaded with cake and bread-and-butter and enormous bowls of
tea. The angelic beings in white veils wait on us. We are hungry and we
think (a pardonable error) that this meal is hospital supper; after
which some work will surely be found for us to do.

We are shown to our quarters on the third floor. We expect two bare
dormitories with rows of hard beds, which we are prepared to make
ourselves, besides sweeping the dormitories, and we find a fine suite of
rooms--a mess-room, bedrooms, dressing-rooms, bathrooms--and hospital
orderlies for our _valets de chambre_.

We unpack, sit round the mess-room and wait for orders. Perhaps we may
all be sent down into the kitchen to wash up. Personally, I hope we
shall be, for washing up is a thing I can do both quickly and well. It
is