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wake up knowing that I was going to bicycle off to
play two rounds of golf was not a penance. It was
a reward. Three evenings a week I went along to
Rivers' room to give my anti-war complex an airing.
We talked a lot about European politicians and what
they were saying. Most of our information was de-
rived from a weekly periodical which contained trans-
lations from the foreign Press. What the politicians
said no longer matters, as far as these memoirs of
mine are concerned, though I would give a lot for
a few gramophone records of my talks with Rivers.
All that matters is my remembrance of the great and
good man who gave me his friendship and guidance.
I can visualize him, sitting at his table in the late
summer twilight, with his spectacles pushed up on
his forehead and his hands clasped in front of one
knee; always communicating his integrity of mind;
never revealing that he was weary, as he must often
have been after long days of exceptionally tiring work
on those war neuroses which demanded such an exer-
cise of sympathy and detachment combined. Remem-
bering all that, and my egotistic unawareness of the
possibility that I was often wasting his time and
energy, I am consoled by the certainty that he did,
on the whole, find me a refreshing companion. He
liked me and he believed in me.

As an R.A.M.C. officer, he was bound to oppose
my "pacifist tendency", but his arguments were al-
ways indirect. Sometimes he gently indicated incon-
sistencies in my impulsively expressed opinions, but
he never contradicted me. Of course the weak point
about my "protest" had been that it was evoked by
personal feeling. It was an emotional idea based on
my war experience and stimulated by the acquisition
of points of view which I accepted uncritically. My