I went out to see the celebrations to-night, and had only one regret—that my revolver was left in Flanders.
For of these how many know,
Or, how many knowing, care
Of the things that bought them this
In the mud fields over there.
It is most emphatically over and will forthwith be forgotten.
Stockholm, Sweden,
30th Aug., 1920.
It is late at night and I am lying on the silken cushions of a private yacht; my host’s daughter, a beautiful blue-eyed girl, is reclining by my side, her hand on my shoulder.
All around us the harbour lights are twinkling merrily and the warm breath of the idle breeze carries the sound of pleasant music from the gardens in the town. The little waves whisper and sigh seductively under the stem of the ship, and overhead, “the soft, lascivious stars leer from the velvet skies.” I recall a similar night at Colwyn in 1914 and wonder if these people, too, will fail to read the writing on the wall.