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various reasons we civilians are better able to judge
the War as a whole than you soldiers. There is no
sort of callousness in this." "Business as usual" was
his motto. The War had stimulated rather than dis-
couraged his output of journalism and fiction. They
all knew how to win the War—in their highly-paid
articles! Damn them, I thought; and then painfully
remembered how much I had liked that particular
novelist when I met him in London. And here I was,
doing my best to hate him! (Rivers would probably
say that hate was a "definitely physiological condi-

But my unprofitable meditations were now conclu-
sively interrupted by the arrival of my room compan-
ion—not the cheerful young Scot in tartan breeches,
but an older man who had replaced him a few weeks
before. I will call him the Theosophist, since he was
of that way of thinking (and overdid it a bit in con-
versation). The Theosophist was a tall fine-looking
man with iron-grey hair and rather handsome eyes.
His attitude toward me was avuncular, tolerant, and
at times slightly tutorial. In peace-time he had been
to some extent a man about town. He had, I assumed,
come back from the front suffering from not being
quite young enough to stand the strain, which doesn't
surprise me now that I am old enough to compare his
time of life with my own.

Anyhow he sauntered amiably in, wearing his
monocle and evidently feeling all the better for his
rubber or two of bridge. Unfortunately he "came in
for" the aftermath of my rather morose ruminations,
for I was fool enough to begin grumbling about the
War and the state of society in general.

The Theosophist responded by assuring me that we
were all only on the great stairway which conducts us