All the streets are full of girls in khaki—girls with the neatest, trimmest little ankles. The smartest of all are the Flying Corps girls, many of whom drive the army cars in the most daring manner. When you think of what they are and were, the war hasn’t done so badly for them. They were purposeless before. Their whole aim was to get married. They felt that they weren’t wanted in the world. They broke windows with Mother Pankhurst. Now they’ve learnt discipline and duty and courage. They’d man the trenches if we’d let them. They used to sneer at our sex; whether they married or remained single, quite a number of them became man-haters. But now—that kind of civil war is ended. Ask the young subaltern back on leave how much he is disliked by the girls. Babies and home have become the fashion. I received quite a shock last Sunday when I was saluted by one of these girls—saluted in a perfectly correct and soldierly fashion. The idea is right; if they outwardly acknowledge that they are a part of the Army, military discipline becomes their protection. But what a queer, changed world from the world of sloppy blouses, cheap and much-too-frequent jewellery, and silly sentimental ogling! England’s become more alert and forthright; despite the war, she’s happier. This isn’t meant for a glorification of war; it’s simply a statement of fact. The time had to come when women would become men; they’ve become men in this most noble and womanly fashion—through service. They’re doing men’s jobs with women’s alacrity. There is only one thing that will keep me from rejoining my battery in January, and that’s this American book. We have come to the conclusion that to complete the picture of American determination to win out, I ought to go on a tour of inspection in France. The Government is interested in the book for propaganda work. The extreme worthwhileness of such an undertaking would reconcile me to a postponement of my return to the Front—nothing else will. All the papers here are full of the details of the advance at Cambrai. I want to be “out there” so badly. What does it matter that there’s mud in the trenches, and death round every traverse, and danger in each step? It’s the hour of glorious life I long for; for such an hour I would exchange all the sheeted beds and running bath-taps, not to mention the æons of Cathay. I can see those gunners forcing up their guns through the mire, and can hear the machine guns clicking away like infuriated typewriters. The whole gigantic pageant of death and endeavour moves before me—and I’m sick of clubs and safety. People say to me, “You’re of more use here—you can serve your country better by being in England.” But when chaps are dying I want to take my chance with them. Don’t be afraid I’ll be kept here. I won’t. I didn’t know till I was held back against my will what a grip that curious existence at the Front had got on me. It isn’t the horror one remembers—it’s the exhilaration of the glory.