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MY^ PREVIOUS chapter began with a little exor-
dium on the needfulness for exactitude when
one is remembering and writing down what occurred
a decade or two ago. At the present moment I am—-
to be exact—exactly 936 weeks away from my mat-
erial; but that sort of accuracy is, of course, merely a
matter of chronological arithmetic. Since what I am
about to relate is only an interlude, I propose to allow
my fantasies more freedom than is my conscientious
habit. Don't assume, though, that I am about to des-
cribe something which never happened at all. Were
I to do that I should be extending the art of reminis-
cence beyond its prescribed purpose, which is, in my
case, to show myself as I am no\v in relation to what
I was during the War.

Allow yourself then to imagine that the before-
mentioned 936 weeks have not yet intervened be-
tween "now" and the autumn of 1917. You will at
once observe what I can only call "one George Sher-
ston" going full speed up a hill on the outskirts of
Edinburgh. The reason for his leg-locomotive velocity
is that he is keeping pace with that quick walker,
W. H. R. Rivers. The clocks of Edinburgh are an-
nouncing the hour of "One" (which we shall, I fear,
some day be obliged by law to call "Thirteen",
though I myself intend, for an obvious reason, to
compromise by referring to it as "i2A"). Up that
hill we go, talking (and walking) as hard as we can.
For we, a couple of khaki-clad figures in (do you
doubt my veracity?) "the mellow rays of an October
sun", are on our way to have luncheon with an
astronomer; and not an ordinary astronomer either,
since this one was—to put it plainly—none other than