es. It will be seen that he very nearly succeeded in thus
setting the top-stone on his literary edifice.

One reason, perhaps, why Batsford, which was ever present to his
thoughts, is so very slightly and vaguely mentioned in Lord Redesdale's
_Memories_, may be the fact that from 1910 onwards he was not living in
it himself, and that it was irksome to him to magnify in print
horticultural beauties which were for the time being in the possession
of others. The outbreak of the war, in which all his five sons were
instantly engaged, was the earliest of a series of changes which
completely altered the surface of Lord Redesdale's life. Batsford came
once more into his personal occupation, and at the same time it became
convenient to give up his London house in Kensington Court. Many things
combined to transform his life in the early summer of 1915. His eldest
son, Major the Hon. Clement Mitford, after brilliantly distinguishing
himself in battle, was received by the King and decorated, to the
rapturous exultation of his father. Major Mitford returned to the French
front, only to fall on May 13th, 1915.

At this time I was seeing Lord Redesdale very frequently, and I could
not but be struck by the effect of this blow upon his temperament. After
the first shock of sorrow, I observed in him the determination not to
allow himself to be crushed. His dominant vitality asserted itself
almost with violence, and he seemed to clench his tooth in defiance of
the assault on his individuality. It required on the part of so old a
man no little fortitude, for it is easier to bear a great and heroic
bereavement than to resist the wearing vexation of seeing one's system
of daily occupation crumbling away. Lord Redesdale was pleased to be
going again to Batsford, which had supplied him in years past with so
much sumptuous and varied entertainment, but it was a matter of alarm
with him to give up all, or almost all, the various ties with London
which had meant so much to his vividly social nature.

Meanwhile, during the early months of 1915 in London, he had plenty of
employment in finishing and revising his _Memories_, which it had taken
him two years to write. This was an occupation which bridged over the
horrid chasm between his old active life in London, with its thousand
interests, and the uncertain and partly dreaded prospect of exile in the
bamboo-gardens of a remote corner of Gloucestershire, where he foresaw
that deafness must needs