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calling the cats. On her way up to bed she came in
(with a glass of milk) and told me that she was sure I
wasn't feeling well. Wouldn't it be a good thing if I
were to go to the seaside for a few days5 golf? But this
suggestion only provided me with further evidence
that it was no earthly use expecting her to share my
views about the War. Games of golf indeed! I
glowered at the glass of milk and had half a mind to
throw it out of the window. Afterwards I decided
that I might as well drink it, and did so.

Late on a sultry afternoon, when returning from a
mutinous-minded walk, I stopped to sit in Butley
Churchyard.   From Butley Hill one looks across a
narrow winding valley, and that afternoon the woods
and orchards suddenly made me feel almost as fond
of them as I'd been when I was in France.  While I
was resting on a flat-topped old tombstone I re-
covered something approximate to peace of mind.
Gazing at my immediate surroundings, I felt that
"joining the great majority" was a homely—almost a
comforting—idea.  Here death differed from extinc-
tion in modern warfare. I ascertained from the near-
est headstone that Thomas Welfare, of this Parish, had
died on October zoth, 1843, aged 72. "Respected by all who
knew him."Also Sarah, wife of the above.   "jVbZ changed
but glorified"  Such facts were resignedly acceptable.
They were in harmony with the simple annals of this
quiet corner of Kent.  One could speculate serenely
upon the homespun mortality of such worthies, whose
lives had "taken place" with the orderly and inevitable
progression of a Sunday service. They made the past
seem pleasantly prosy in contrast with the monstrous
emergencies of to-day. And Butley Church., with its