militarist, but since she was in it he had got to find reasons why she
was wrong. And jolly good reasons they were, too. I couldn't have
met his arguments if I had wanted to, so I sat docilely at his feet.
The world was all crooked for Letchford, and God had created him
with two left hands. But the fellow had merits. He had a couple of
jolly children whom he adored, and he would walk miles with me
on a Sunday, and spout poetry about the beauty and greatness of
England. He was forty-five; if he had been thirty and in my battalion
I could have made a soldier out of him.

There were dozens more whose names I have forgotten, but they
had one common characteristic. They were puffed up with spiritual
pride, and I used to amuse myself with finding their originals in the
_Pilgrim's _Progress. When I tried to judge them by the standard of
old Peter, they fell woefully short. They shut out the war from
their lives, some out of funk, some out of pure levity of mind, and
some because they were really convinced that the thing was all
wrong. I think I grew rather popular in my role of the seeker after
truth, the honest colonial who was against the war by instinct and
was looking for instruction in the matter. They regarded me as a
convert from an alien world of action which they secretly dreaded,
though they affected to despise it. Anyhow they talked to me very
freely, and before long I had all the pacifist arguments by heart. I
made out that there were three schools. One objected to war
altogether, and this had few adherents except Aronson and Weekes,
C.O., now languishing in Dartmoor. The second thought that the
Allies' cause was tainted, and that Britain had contributed as much
as Germany to the catastrophe. This included all the adherents of
the L.D.A. - or League of Democrats against Aggression - a very
proud body. The third and much the largest, which embraced