set things to rights, and nothing remained for Old England save to rid
itself gracefully of what remained of its few millions of new-found
friends. There was, however, no shaking off its bosom pal, Henry. I
am one of those loyal characters whose affection, once gained, nothing
can undo. No use saying to me: "Well, old man, it's getting late now;
you must come and see us again some other day." I am one of the sort
who answer: "Don't you worry yourself about that. I'm going to stay
and go on seeing you now."

In the early days of demobilisation there was, I think, a certain
novelty and attraction about my attitude to the problem. In contrast
to the impatient hordes crowding the entrance of the War Office,
ringing the front-door bell violently, tapping on the window-panes
and generally disturbing that serene atmosphere of peace which was the
great feature of the War in Whitehall, it was refreshing to think
of Henry, plugging quietly away elsewhere at his military duties,
undeterred by armistices, peaces and things of that kind. I fancy I
was well thought of in those days at the War House.

"Say what you like about him," I can hear A.G.4 remarking to M.S.19
(decimal 9 recurring) as they met in the corridor on their way to
lunch, "but I find him a patient, well-behaved young fellow."

"Yes," would be the thoughtful answer, "it seems almost a pity we are
going to lose him."

Speaking strictly between ourselves, I have never thought much of the
Military Secretary branch. What made them think they were going to
lose me as easily as all that?