20 OCTOBER 1939, Page 15

He would return to the little Kentish village where he

lived. Slowly the smoke of burning weeds would rise against the autumn woods, and lazily the apples would drop in the orchard. His mind had been sharpened by fame and tragedy until it had become as hard, as metallic, and as narrow as a chisel. The slow, organic will-po xer of Britain eluded his observation; he regarded our indifference to the mechanical as a proof that we, as they say in Minnesota, were "incurably effete." He liked England; he had no desire to see her mur- dered; he hoped that we should run away before Marshal Goering could catch us. * *