Our friend in the corner took my remarks extremely personally. To show his resentment of me, he pointedly offered the colonel some of his fodder. At last he said very haughtily, “It may interest you to know that I am the censor and am at present going up the line to give evidence against Lieutenant N. at his trial.” Just at that moment the train stopped at a station. He blinked through the window with his shortsighted eyes, trying to read the name “This is M., I think,” he said; “if it is, we stop here ten minutes and get time to stretch our legs.” I looked out of the window helpfully. “It is M.,” I told him. It wasn’t. He got out and commenced to walk up the platform. Almost immediately the train started to pull out. He made a wild crab-wise dash for the carriage-door, but the colonel and I were hanging to it on the inside. When we were safely on our journey, we shared up his pillows, rugs, hot-water bottles, and eatables between us, and had a comparatively pleasant journey. For once we thanked God for the censor. It’s tea-time at home. You’ve probably come in from a walk and are smoking a cigar at the family oak-table. I wish I could pop in on you. Oh, our latest excitement! We received our new gramophone last night with about thirty of the latest records! You’ll be glad to know that I now have my old batman back. He’s the man who took me out when I was wounded and was so tender to me on the way to the hospital. That memory of his tenderness is rather embarrassing, for I can’t bring myself to strafe him the way I ought to. I can always see the fellow’s concern when he thought that I was done for. Now that he’s got me back he acts as though I were still a very weak and indiscreet person who had to be coaxed and managed. I have the feeling in his presence of being perpetually in pyjamas and in bed. He has the advantage of me, to put it in a nutshell. XLIII France May 3, 1918