s,
who do not suffer from colour prejudice, scramble onto the knees
of the black soldiers.

The sister in charge was a true daughter of the "Lady of the
Lamp." Provided they are really ill, she sympathises with all the
grumblers, but scolds them if they have reached the convalescent
stage. She carries a small book in which she enters imaginary
good points to those who have the tables by their beds tidy, and
she pinned an invisible medal on the chest of a convalescent who
was helping to carry trays of food to his comrades. She is indeed a
General, saving men for France.

Not a man escaped her attention, and as we passed through the
tents she gave to each of her "chers enfants," black or white, a
cheering smile or a kindly word. She did, however, whilst talking to
us, omit to salute a Senegalais. Before she passed out of the tent
he commenced to call after her, "Toi pas gentille aujourd'hui, moi
battre toi." (You are not good to me to-day; me beat you.) This, it
appears, is his little joke--he will never beat any one again, since
he lost both his arms when his trench was blown up by a land
mine.

It was at Triancourt that I first saw in operation the motor-cars that
had been sent out fitted with bath tubs for the troops, and also a
very fine car fitted up by the London Committee of the French Red
Cross as a moving dental hospital.

I regret to add that a "Poilu" near by disrespectfully referred to it as
"another of the horrors of war," adding that in times of peace there
was some kind of personal liberty, whereas now "a man could not
have toothache without being forced to have it ended, and that
there was no possibility of escaping a dentist who hunted you
down by motor."

It was suggested that as I had had a touch of toothache the night
before, I might take my place in the chair and give an example of
British pluck to the assembled "Poilus." I hastened to impress on
the surgeon that I hated notoriety and would prefer to remain
modestly in the background. I even pushed aside with scorn the
proffered bribe of six "Boche," buttons, assuring the man that "I
would keep my toothache as a souvenir."

At one of the hospitals beside the bed of a dying man sat a little
old man writing letters. They told me that before the war he had
owned the most flourishing wine shop in the village. He had fled
before the approach of the German troops, but later returned to his
village and installed himself in the hospital as scribe. H