Christmas came and went and we entered on the new
year of 1916. It was only at a date in the middle of February, a
year since I had driven to Wellings Park to hear the tragic news
of Oswald Fenimore's death, that I find an important entry in my
diary.
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Boyce was shown into my study, her comely Dresden china face
very white and her hands shaking. She held a telegram. I had seen
faces like that before. Every day in England there are hundreds
thus stricken. I feared the worst. It was a relief to read the
telegram and find that Boyce was only wounded. The message said
seriously wounded, but gave consolation by adding that his life
was not in immediate danger. Mrs. Boyce was for setting out for
France forthwith. I dissuaded her from a project so embarrassing
to the hospital authorities and so fatiguing to herself. In spite
of the chivalry and humanity of our medical staff, old ladies of
seventy are not welcome at a busy base hospital. As soon as he was
fit to be moved, I assured her, he would be sent home, before she
could even obtain her permits and passes and passport and make
other general arrangements for her journey.
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