_Park Lane._
DEAREST DAPHNE,--There was a big party of us at the Clackmannans' Scotch
place, Blairbinkie, when all these fearful things began to happen--and
now where are we all? The Flummery boys and ever so many more of the
party are at the front with their regiments. The Duke of Clackmannan is
at the head of the Clackmannan Yeomanry. Norty's gone off to help take
care of the East coast, and it's lucky to have _him_ helping to protect
it and keep watch, for if there's _anybody_ who could see things coming
sooner than anybody else it's Norty!
Stella, Beryl, Babs and your Blanche are all back in Town, and when
we're not taking lessons in nursing we're sewing at flannel. I make
Yvonne do my hair quite, _quite_ plainly, and I'm giving my jewels to my
country. I've already given my dear collar of pearls. I gave that first
because I love it best of all my jewels, because it can _never_ be
replaced, and because pearls suit me better than _any_ other stone.
All our first fingers are covered with pricks and look immensely horrid,
but we glory in it and won't even put any cold cream on them! As I said
yesterday afternoon, when we were all sewing away at flannel, if _any_
woman, I don't care _who_, offered me her hand and I saw that the first
finger was _smooth_ I'd refuse to take it! Beryl must needs weigh in
with, "But, my dear Blanche, she wouldn't offer you her _left_ hand!
It's the _left_ forefinger that gets punished in needlework." "The
principle is the same," I answered coldly. "And besides, some people are
left-handed." Beryl has decent qualities, I know, and one doesn't want
to find fault with anyone just now, but she was always like that--and
her _hemming_, dearest!
Babs is wild to go to the front, but I say she'd be only a nuisance
until she knows more about nursing. Someone told me the other day,
_à propos_ of untrained women going to the front and hindering instead of
helping, that during the last war a poor dear in one of the hospitals
had his hair parted _fifty_ times in an hour by _fifty_ different
people, and nearly got brain-fever.
There was a man in the party at Blairbinkie who, before we were at war,
talked _fervidly_ of what he should do for his country if trouble came.
I had not liked Hector Swankington the least little bit before that, but
when he said that, in the event of war, he would raise a troop at his
own expense, call it "Swankington's Horse" and lead it himself "wherever
the fighting was hottest," I thought I'd not done him justice. So I
listened to him and approved and encouraged the plan. And then the storm
burst and we all scattered. The other morning I met him in the Park when
I was taking my early walk. He asked if I would dine with him some
evening at the "Iridescent," and I said it was not a time for dining at
restaurants. "No," he agreed, "it certainly isn't now all the French
cooks are gone; and what an idiotic idea this is about reducing the
number of courses at dinner! Silly rot, I call it!"