But the hotel wasn't a dream--at least we had no chance of dreaming--bugs, lice and all sorts of little things were active all night.

I had been told by the War Office to go slow and not try to hustle people, so we decided we would not go and report to the Colonel till the next day after lunch.
Looking into the yard from my window in the afternoon, I saw two men I knew, one an artist from Chelsea, the other a Dublin man, who (p.

014) used to play lawn tennis.

They were "Graves." My Dublin friend was "Adjutant, Graves," in fact he proudly told me that "Adjutant, Graves, B.E.F., France," would always find him.

We dined with them that night at H.Q.Graves.