If you think I lived a Tom-tabby, tea-party sort of life, you are quite mistaken, if the War Office could have its way, it would have lashed me in red tape, gagged me with Regulations, and sealing-waxed me up in my bed-room.

And there are thousands of us who have shaken our fists under the nose of the War Office and shouted, "All your blighting, Man-with-the-Mudrake officialdom shan't prevent us from serving our country." And it hasn't! The very Government itself, in spite of its monumental efforts, has not been able to shackle us into inertia or drug us into apathy.

Such non-combatant francs-tireurs in England have done a power of good work.
And then, of course, there was the hospital which, in one way or another, took up a good deal of my time.
I was reposing in the front garden one late afternoon in mid-June, after a well-filled day, when a car pulled up at the gate, in which were Betty (at the wheel) and a wounded soldier, in khaki, his cap perched on top of a bandaged head.

I don't know whether it is usual for young women in nurse's uniform to career about the country driving wounded men in motor cars, but Betty did it.

She cared very little for the usual.