Those words were written in 1971, only a year before the war actually broke out, and when, of course, we all saw that it was coming. Such then were the impressions of us older folk; and now let me leave it to my younger readers to say whether since then, with all the good resolutions we made when the crisis was upon us, we have really gone forward or gone back? Have we really fulfilled the promise of those desperate moments when, under the shadow of a world-catastrophe, we thought we had for once seen ourselves as we would like to be? Let me quote, though they have been often quoted, the words of Mrs. Bisset, in the early part of 1975, that rang like a trumpet-call throughout the theatrophones of the civilized world: “We shall not lightly forget the lessons of the recent conflict. If we have learned that human nature, even in its degradation, can rise in its might and throw off its old evil habits under the stimulus of a great emergency, we will tell ourselves, in the years to come, that this human nature is worth labouring for and worth fighting for. If we have seen, at the same time, that the ideals which once satisfied and the conditions which once contented us were ideals which ambition should have despised, and conditions which dignity should have resented, we will remember in the days to come that we must never again let ourselves be duped by the ignoble lure of a false peace. We have fought for honour, for civilization, for high aims and pure enthusiasms: we have met the powers of evil, and forced upon them the conditions of a not dishonourable peace. And the power which has been generated by these years of relentless friction will, if we but canalize it aright, galvanize through centuries to come the failing dynamos of humanity.” So it looked to us in ’75; I leave it to the consciences of my readers to determine whether we have lived up to those heroic sentiments. And now I must unslip the catch, and put the lid upon my well-worn typewriter. I cannot tell what verdict will be passed on my poor efforts. In the old days, when reviewers held themselves bound to read through a book before they recorded their impressions of it, I should no doubt have had my weak points discovered by the eye of unfriendly criticism; to-day, one can still hope that one’s deficiencies will pass unobserved! I am afraid, now I come to look back over the record, that after all it is a chronicle of small doings; if I had known that I was to write reminiscences in my old age, perhaps I would have travelled further in search of impressions, and striven higher so as to satisfy my readers with the story of greater things. As it is, it must pass for an old woman’s gossip; and as such, let us hope that it will be lightly judged.