We were pals over there; but here every single soul
loathes every other single soul like poison. . . . Can it be that only
by going back to the primitive, as we had to do in France, can one find
happiness? The idea is preposterous. . . . And, yet, now that I'm
here and have been here these months, I'm longing to come back. I'm
sick of it. Looking at this country with what I call my French
eyes--it nauseates me. It seems so utterly petty. . . . What the
devil are we fighting for? It's going to be a splendid state of
affairs, isn't it, if the immediate result of beating the Boche is
anarchy over here? . . . . And one feels that it oughtn't to be so;
one feels that it's Gilbertian to the pitch of frenzied lunacy. You've
seen those boys in hospital; I've seen 'em in the line--and they've
struck me, as they have you, as God's elect. . . . Then why, WHY, WHY,
in the name of all that is marvellous, is this state of affairs
existing over here? . . . .

"I went to lunch with Sir James Devereux before I left Rumfold. A nice
old man, but money, or rather the lack of it, is simply rattling its
bones in the family cupboard. . . ."

Vane laid down his pen as he came to this point, and began to trace
patterns idly on the blotting paper. After a while he turned to the
sheet again.

"His daughter seems very nice--also his sister, who is stone deaf. One
screams at her through a megaphone. He, of course, rants and raves at
what he calls the lack of patriotism shown by the working man. Fears
an organised strike--financed by enemy money--if not during, at any
rate after, the war. The country at a standstill--anarchy, Bolshevism.
'Pon my soul, I can't help thinking he's right. As soon as men, even
the steadiest, have felt the power of striking--what will stop
them? . . . And as he says, they've had the most enormous concessions.
By Jove! lady--it sure does make me sick and tired. . . .

"However, in pursuance of your orders delivered verbally on the beach
at Paris Plage, I am persevering in my endeavours to find the beaten
track. I am lunching to-day with Nancy Smallwood, who has a new craze.
You remember at one time it used to be keeping parrots--and then she
went through a phase of distributing orchids through the slums of
Whitechapel, to improve the recipients' aesthetic sense. She only gave
that up, I have always understood, when she took to wearing black
underclothes!

"I met her yesterday in Bond Street, and