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.