tunic, and winding
khaki putties round and round her legs to hang about the Hospital doing
nothing. And she had to sell her motor bicycle in order to come out. Not
that that matters in the least. What matters is that we are here, eating
Belgian food and quartered in a Belgian Military Hospital, and
"swanking" about with Belgian Red Cross brassards (stamped) on our
sleeves, and doing nothing for the Belgians, doing nothing for anybody.
We are not justifying our existence. We are frauds.

I tell the poor child that she cannot possibly feel as big a fraud as I
do; that there was no earthly reason why I should have come, and none
whatever why I should remain.

And then, to my amazement, I learn that I am envied. It's all right for
me. My job is clearly defined, and nobody can take it from me. I haven't
got to wind khaki putties round my legs for nothing.

I should have thought that the child was making jokes at my expense but
for the extreme purity and candour of her gaze. Incredible that there
should exist an abasement profounder than my own. I have hidden my tunic
and breeches in my hold-all. I dare not own to having brought them.

Down in the vestibule I encounter Mrs. Torrence in khaki. Mrs. Torrence
yearning for her wounded. Mrs. Torrence determined to get to her wounded
at any cost. She is not abased or dejected, but exalted, rather. She is
ready to go to the President or to the Military Power itself, and demand
her wounded from them. Her beautiful eyes demand them from Heaven
itself.

I cannot say there are not enough wounded to go round, but I point out
for the fifteenth time that the trouble is there are not enough
ambulance cars to go round.

But it is no use. It does not explain why Heaven should have chosen
Ursula Dearmer and caused shells to bound in her direction, and have
rejected Mrs. Torrence. The Military Power that should have ordered
these things has abandoned us to the caprice of Heaven.

Of course if Mrs. Torrence was a saint she would fold her hands and bow
her superb little head before the decrees of Heaven; but she is only a
mortal woman, born with the genius of succour and trained to the last
point of efficiency; so she rages. The tigress, robbed of her young, is
not more furiously inconsolable than Mrs. Torrence.

It is not Ursula Dearmer's fault. She is innocent of supplanting Mrs.
Torrence. The thing simply happened. More docile than determined,
unhurrying and uneager, and only half-aw