Sister Baynes came into my room just as I was putting on my out-door uniform and wanted to know how I was spending my two hours off duty. She is full of curiosity about--she calls it interest in--other people's affairs. When I told her I was going out to buy a birthday present she looked rather stern. Said she:-- "The giving of unnecessary presents has become a luxury which few of us nowadays think it right to afford." I didn't answer her because at the moment I could think of no really adequate reason why Bobbie _should_ have a present, except that I so very much wanted to give him one. Bobbie is tall and young and red-haired and, of course, khaki clad. We are going to be married "when the War is over." I pondered Sister Baynes' words until I reached Oxford Street, and then forgot them in the interest of choosing the present. For a while I hesitated between cigarettes and chocolates, and finally decided on the latter. Bobbie is a perfect pig about sweets. I bought a comfortable-looking box, ornamented with a St. George, improbably attired in khaki, slaying a delightful German dragon clad in blue and a Uhlan helmet. St. George had red hair and a distinct look of Bobbie, which was one reason why I got him. [Illustration: THE COMBINATION SCOOTER AND CARPET SWEEPER. BUY YOUR SERVANT ONE AND ADD A ZEST TO HER WORK.] This business accomplished, I thought I would call on a friend who lives near by. She is middle-aged and rather sad, and spends her time pushing trolleys about a munition works. Just now, however, I knew she had a cold and couldn't go out. I found her on the floor wrestling with brown paper, preparing a parcel for her soldier on Salisbury Plain. She adopted him through a League, and spends all her spare time and pocket-money in socks and cigarettes for him. She smiled at me wanly, with a piece of string between her teeth, and I felt I simply must do something to cheer her up. "I've brought you some chocolates for your cold," I said. "Eat one and forget the War and the weather," and I handed her Bobbie's box. Her necessity, as someone says somewhere, seemed at the moment so much greater than his. "You extravagant child!" she said, but her face lightened for an instant. She admired St. George almost as much as I had done, but, though she fingered the orange-coloured bow, she did not untie it, so I concluded she meant to have an orgy by herself later on. We talked for a while, and then I looked at the clock and fled for the hospital. She thanked me again for the chocolates as I went; she really seemed quite pleased with them. Two days later Matron collared me in the passage and gave me a handful of letters and things to distribute. There was a fat parcel for Martha, the ward-maid. I found her in the closet where she keeps her brooms, and gave it her. Her eyes simply danced as she took it, first carefully wiping her hand on her apron.