They woke me after a couple of hours, lent me a horse, and directed me to the company. To-morrow I shall be in England. _Nov. 9._ In the paper this morning there is a brief announcement that the Second Army is across the Scheldt. I was proud to see it and felt amply rewarded for my terrible night in the water. It has left no apparent after-effects, so there must have been more resistance left in my old carcass than I gave myself credit for. _Nov. 11._ It is over. These last few days I have hardly dared to hope for it, and now that it has come I can hardly realise exactly what it means. The thought of going back to it was killing me, and I have been suffering from the most ghastly nightmare dreams—sometimes I am stuck in the wire, unable to duck, with bullets whistling past my head—another time I am trying to run through knee-deep mud with the shell-bursts slowly overtaking me. I haven’t slept peacefully since my return, but think it will be better now. 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. We are living once more in the days of “pomp and circumstance”—each morning I see their Guards march to the Royal Palace with brazen music and all the childish pageantry of war—each afternoon I see their sartorially perfect officers parade the Strandvagen before the gay-gowned beauties of the cafés.