I am much struck by the feeling of sheer weariness and disgust at the
war which prevails at present. People are "soul sick" of it. A man told
me last night that he longed to be wounded so that he might go home
honourably. Amongst all the volunteer corps I notice the same thing.
"Fed up" is the expression they all use, fed up with the suffering they
see, fed up even with red crosses and khaki.

When one thinks of primrose woods at home, and birds singing, and
apple-blossom against blue sky, and the park with its flower-beds newly
planted, and the fresh-watered streets, and women in pretty dresses--but
one mustn't!

_6 May._--Mrs. Guest arrived here to stay yesterday, and her chauffeur,
Mr. Wood, dined here. It is nice to be no longer quite alone. Last night
we were talking about how horrible war is. Mrs. Guest told me of a sight
she had herself seen. Some men, horribly wounded, were being sent away
by rail in a covered waggon ("fourgon"). One man had only his mouth left
in his face. He was raving mad, and raged up and down the van, trampling
on other men's wounded and broken limbs.

Certainly war is a pretty game, and we must go on singing "Tipperary,"
and saying what fun it is. A young friend of mine at home gave me a
pamphlet (price 2d.) written by a spinster friend of hers who had never
left England, proving what a good thing this war was for us all. When I
said I saw another aspect of it, the kind, soothing suggestion was that
I must be a little over-tired.

_7 May._--They say La Panne is to be bombarded to-day. The Queen has
left. Some people fussed a good deal, but if one bothered one's poor