When I was in Harding’s company I knew that it was ridiculous to discuss any subject which lay beyond that formula. It was impossible to suggest that England had ever been guilty of the slightest injustice, a touch of greed, or a tinge of hypocrisy, or something less than wisdom. To him that was just traitor’s talk. A plea for the better understanding of Ireland, for a generous measure of “self-determination” would have roused him to a hot outburst of anger. The Irish to him were all treacherous, disloyal blackguards, and the only remedy of the Irish problem was, he thought, martial law and machine-gun demonstrations, stern and, if need be, terrible. I did not argue with him, or chaff him as some of his comrades did, and, keeping within the prescribed limits of conversation set by his code, we got on together admirably. Once only in those days on the Rhine did Harding show an emotion which would have been condemned by his code. It was due, no doubt, to that nervous fever which made some wag change the word “demobilisation” into “demoralisation.” He had a room in the Domhof Hotel, and invited me to drink a whiskey with him there one evening. When I sat on the edge of the bed while he dispensed the drink, I noticed on his dressing-table a large photograph of a girl in evening dress--a wonderfully pretty girl, I thought. He caught my glance, and after a moment’s hesitation and a visible blush, said: “My wife.... We were married before I came out, two years ago exactly.” He put his hand into the breast-pocket of his tunic and pulling out a pocket-book, opened it with a snap, and showed me another photograph. “That’s a better one of her.” I congratulated him, but without listening to my words he asked me rather awkwardly whether I could pull any strings for him to get “demobbed.” “It’s all a question of ‘pull,’” he said, “and I’m not good at that kind of thing. But I want to get home.” “Everybody does,” I said. “Yes, I know, and of course I want to play the game, and all that. But the fact is, my wife--she’s only a kid, you know--is rather hipped with my long absence. She’s been trying to keep herself merry and bright, and all that, with the usual kind of war-work. You know--charity bazaars, fancy-dress balls for the wounded, Red Cross work, and all that. Very plucky, too. But the fact is, some of her letters lately have been rather--well--rather below par,--you know--rather chippy and all that. The fact is, old man, she’s been too much alone, and anything you can do in the way of a pull at the War Office----” I told him bluntly that I had as much influence at the War Office as the charwoman in Room M.I.8, or any other old room--not so much--and he was damped, and apologised for troubling me. However, I promised to write to the one High Bird with whom I had a slight acquaintance, and this cheered him up considerably.