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one this impression—and it is a picture which makes
one's pulse beat a lot faster. . . ."
"The tips of their bayonets give one that impres-
sion." . . . Obviously the woman journalist who
wrote those words was deriving enjoyment from the
War, though she may not have been aware of the fact.
I wondered why it was necessary for the Western
Front to be "attractively advertised55 by such intoler-
able twaddle. What was this camouflage War which
was manufactured by the press to aid the imaginations
of people who had never seen the real thing? Many
of them probably said that the papers gave them a
sane and vigorous view of the overwhelming tragedy.
"Naturally", they would remark, "the lads from the
front are inclined to be a little morbid about it; one
expects that, after all they've been through. Their
close contact with the War has diminished their reali-
zation of its spiritual aspects." Then they would add
something about "the healing of Nations". Such
people needed to have their noses rubbed in a few
rank physical facts, such as what a company of men
smelt like after they'd been in action for a week. . . .
The gong rang for luncheon, and Lady Asterisk left
off reading a book by Tagore (whose mystical philo-
sophies had hitherto seemed to me nebulous and
It must not be supposed that I was ungrateful
for my good luck. For several days on end I could
feel obliviously contented, and in weaker moments
there was an absurd hope that the War might be
over before next autumn. Rambling among woods
and meadows, I could "take sweet counsel" with the
country-side; sitting on a grassy bank and lifting my