She had no country house to place at the disposal of the Government
as a convalescent home. Michael after a few experiments forbade her
offering any hospitality at No. 1 Park Crescent to invalid officers.
Such as were entrusted to her in the spring of 1915 soon found that
she was--as they phrased it--"a pompous little, middle-class fool,"
wielding no authority. They larked in the laboratory with Red Cross
nurses, broke specimens, and did very unkind and noisy things ...
besides smoking in both the large _and_ the small dining-rooms. So,
after the summer of 1915, she lived very much alone, except that she
had the Adams children from Marylebone to spend the day with her
occasionally.
Poor Mrs. Adams, though a valiant worker, was very downcast and
unhappy. She confided to Mrs. Rossiter that although she dearly
loved her Bert--"and a better husband I defy you to find"--he never
seemed all hers. "Always so wrapped up in that Miss Warren or 'er
cousin the barrister." And no sooner had war broken out than off he
was to France, as a kind of missionary, she believed--the Young
Men's Christian Something or other; "though before the War he didn't
seem particular stuck on religion, and it was all she could do to
get him sometimes to church on a Sunday morning. Oh yes: she got 'er
money all right; and she couldn't say too much of Mr. and Mrs.
Rossiter's kindness.
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