Suddenly the ambulance-nurse shouts to the driver. The ambulance
stops. She's quite excited. Clutching me with one hand, she points
with the other, "There he is."

"Who?"

I raise myself. A naval lieutenant is standing against the pavement,
gazing anxiously at the passing traffic.

"Your brother, isn't it?"

I shook my head. "Not half handsome enough."

For the rest of the journey she's convinced I have a headache. It's no
good telling her that I haven't; much to my annoyance and amusement
she swabs my forehead with eau-de-Cologne, telling me that I shall
soon feel better.

The streets through which we pass are on the south side of the
Thames. It's Saturday evening. Hawkers' barrows line the kerb; women
with draggled skirts and once gay hats are doing their Sunday
shopping. We're having a kind of triumphant procession; with these
people to feel is to express. We catch some of their remarks: "'Oo!
Look at 'is poor leg!" "My, but ain't 'e done in shockin'!"

Dear old London--so kind, so brave, so frankly human! You're just like
the chaps at the Front--you laugh when you suffer and give when you're
starving; you never know when not to be generous. You wear your heart
in your eyes and your lips are always ready for kissing, I think of
you as one of your own flower-girls--hoarse of voice, slatternly as to