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that most of the "other patients" weren't feeling as
happy as they used to do. The place was alive mus-
eum of war neuroses—in other words the hospital
contained about 150 officers who had been either
shattered or considerably shaken by their war ex-

Eerience. I shared a room with a cheerful young
cotch captain who showed no symptom of eccen-
tricity, though I gradually ascertained that he had
something on his mind—was it some hallucination
about his having been shot at by a spy?—I have for-
gotten, and only remember that he was a thoroughly
nice man. On the whole, I feit happier outside the
hydro than in it, so I went for long walks on the
Pentland Hills, which really did seem unaware that
there was a war on, while retaining their commemora-
tive associations with Robert Louis Stevenson. But
at the end of my first week at Slateford my career as
a public character was temporarily resuscitated by
my "statement59 being read out in the House of Com-
mons. Referring to Hansard's Parliamentary Debates,
30th July, 1917? I finc* tkat the episode occurred at
7 p.m. There, I think, it may safely be allowed to
remain at rest, unless I decide to reprint the proceed-
ings as an appendix to this volume, which is improb-
able. I will only divulge that the debate ended by Mr.
Bryce saying "We know that the Groats, the Serbs,
the Slovaks, the Slovenes, and the Czechs are all op-
posed to it." (What they were opposed to was the
Austrian dynasty, not my statement.) Oddly enough,
the name of the commandant of Slateford Hospital
was also Bryce, which only shows what a small place
the world is.

As far as I was concerned the only visible result was
a batch of letters from people who either agreed or
disagreed with my views. But I needed a holiday from