at I earned to every kind of
parasite. London was more disagreeable than ever was Flanders. Yet I
think I would not object to sweep the roads for a community of good
people. Yes, I thought nothing could be worse than the dead in the mud.
But I found something worse. The minds of the living who did not know
what I knew in France were worse to me. I couldn't remember the friends
I'd lost and remain where I was with those people about me. It was more
awful than that German--did you ever meet him?--who lay just the other
side of the parapet for weeks and weeks."

His only companion now is a paraffin stove, which does not, perhaps,
require a gas-mask to aid in its companionship, though about that I won't
be sure. The only conversation he hears is that of the curlews; subdued,
cheerful, and very intimate voices, having just that touch of melancholy
which intimacy, when it is secure and genuine, is sure to give, however
jolly the intimacy may be. He said that at first he was afraid he could
not live on what little money he had, and must earn casually, after
buying the boat, but "it's easier to live than I thought. There's not
nearly as much worry needed as I used to suppose. It is surprising how
much one can do without. I was rather scared at first when I got rid of
my sense of duty. But, after all, it is not so hard to be free. Perhaps
the world already has more soft and easy people than is good for it. I
find one benefit of this life is that, being free of the crowd, I feel
indifferent about the way the crowd chooses to go. I don't care now what
the public does--that's its own affair, and I hope it will enjoy it."
After a silence he said: "That sounds selfish, I know. And I'm not sure
yet that it isn't. Anyhow, if one could help one's fellows one would.
But is it possible to help them? When did they last listen to reason? The
only guides they will listen to are frauds obvious enough to make an ass
lay back his ears. Well, I think I'll wait here till the crowd knows
enough to stop before it gets to the edge of the steep place--if it can
stop now."

I asked him what he read. "Very little. I fish more than I read. You'd
think it would take only a week to learn all there is here. I should have
thought so once. I see now that I shall never thoroughly know this
estuary. It's a wonderful place. Every tide is a new experience. I am
beginning to feel right again." In the boat, going round to the village,
he learned I was a writer, r