"I don't see where the excitement in the present case comes in.

Mother started an interesting hare, and I followed it up.

Anyhow--" he threw himself on the sofa, blew a kiss to his mother in the most charming way in the world, and smiled on me--"anyhow, to see you two in this dearest bit of dear old England is like a dream.

And I'm not going to think of the waking up.

I want all the cushions and the lavender and the neat maid's caps and aprons--I said to Mary this morning when she drew my curtains: 'Stay just there and let me look at you so that I can realise I'm at home and not in my little grey trench in West Flanders'-- she got red and no doubt thought me a lunatic and felt inclined to squawk--but she stayed and looked jolly pretty and refreshing--only for a minute or two, after which I dismissed her--yes, my dears, I want everything that the old life means, the white table linen, the spring flowers, the scent of the air which has never known the taint of death, and all that this beautiful mother of England, with her knitting needles, stands for.