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Leaving me in the rabbit-hole to ruminate and
reserve my energies, Velmore toddled ofTto the Front
Line, which was, to revert to golfing phraseology., only
an easy iron-shot away. I cannot claim that I remem-
ber exactly what I ruminated about, but an intimate
knowledge of my mental technique assures me that,
with danger looming in the near future, my thoughts
were soon far away from St. Floris. (Who was St.
Floris, by the way?) Probably I scribbled half a page
in that long lost notebook—not too self-consciously,
I hope. And then my mind may have rambled off to
see a few friends.

Having ceased to wonder when the War would be
over, I couldn't imagine myself anywhere else but on
active service, and I was no longer able to indulge in
reveries about being at home. When I came out this
last time I had turned my back on everything con-
nected with peace-time enjoyment, I suppose this
meant that I was making a forced effort to keep going
till the end. Like many people, I had a feeling that
ordinary human existence was being converted into
a sort of nightmare. Things were being said and done
which would have been considered madness before
the War. The effects of the War had been the reverse
of ennobling, it seemed. Social historians can decide
whether I am wrong about it.

Anyhow, as I was saying, I probably thought
vaguely about those kind hunting people at Limerick,
and speculated on such problems as what The Mister
did with himself during the summer months; it quite
worried me when I thought of the old boy convivially
consuming neat whisky in hot weather. But if I called
to mind my more intimate friends, it was themselves