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asked me what I intended to do or put the slightest
pressure on me about it. Now that he was back from
leave he would probably tackle the question. Perhaps
he would do so that very evening.

Meanwhile I went up to my room and sat there
cleaning my clubs. After a bit the Theosophist came
in to smarten himself up before going into Edinburgh
for dinner. When in good spirits he had a habit of
addressing me in literary language, usually either
tags of Shakespeare or locutions reminiscent of Rider
Haggard's romances. If I remarked that the way the
windows rattled and creaked was enough to keep one
awake all night, he would reply, "True, O King," or
"Thou hast uttered wise words, O great white chief.'3
He now informed me, while rubbing his face with a
towel, that he had been engaged on "enterprises of
great pith and moment".

"To-day, toward the going down of the sun, O
Sherston, the medicine men put forth their powers
upon me, and soothfully I say unto you, they have
passed me for permanent home-service." Where
would he go to, I enquired.

"I shall sit in an office, O man of little faith, wear-
ing blue tabs upon my tunic and filling in Army
Forms whereof no man knoweth the mysterious mean-
ing," he replied, and left me wondering what occu-
pation I ought to find for my disillusioned self.

Writing about it so long afterwards, one is liable to
forget that while the War was going on nobody really
knew when it would stop. For ordinary infantry offi-
cers like myself there was always what we called "a
feint bloody hope that it may be over in six months