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state of mind; so I stayed in London for another fort-
night, and during that period my mental inquietude
achieved some sort of climax. In fact I can safely say
that my aggregated exasperations came to a head;
and, naturally enough, the head was my own.   The
prime cause of this psychological thunderstorm was
my talk with Markington, who was unaware of his
ignitionary effect until I called on him in his editorial
room on the Monday after our first meeting.  Osten-
sibly I went to ask his advice; in reality, to release the
indignant emotions which his editorial utterances had
unwittingly brought to the surface of my conscious-
ness.  It was a case of direct inspiration; I had, so to
speak, received the call, and the editor of the Uncon-
servative Weekly seemed the most likely man to put me
on the shortest road to martyrdom. It really felt very
fine, and as long as I was alone my feelings carried
me along on a torrent of prophetic phrases. But when
I was inside Markington5 s office (he sitting with fin-
gers pressed together and regarding me with alertly
mournful curiosity) my internal eloquence dried up
and I began abruptly.   "I say, I've been thinking it
all over, and I've made up my mind that I ought to
do something about it." He pushed his spectacles up
on to his forehead and leant back in his chair. "You
want to do something?"   "About the War, I mean.
I just can't sit still and do nothing. You said the other
day that you couldn't print anything really out-
spoken, but I don't see why I shouldn't make some
sort of statement—about how we ought to publish our
War Aims and all that, and the troops not knowing
what they're fighting about.  It might do quite a lot
of good, mightn't it?"   He got up and went to the
window.  A secretarial typewriter tick-tacked in the
next room.   While he stood with his back to me I
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