in particular to think—­nothing but just to go on, doing these 40,000 things (and they take a new turn every day) the best I can, without the slightest regard to consequences.  I’ve long ago passed the place where, having acted squarely according to my best judgment, I can afford to pay the slightest attention to what anybody thinks.  I see men thrown on the scrap heap every day.  Many of them deserve it, but a good many do not.  In the abnormal state of mind that everybody has, there are inevitable innocent misunderstandings, which are as fatal as criminal mistakes.  The diplomatic service is peculiarly exposed to misunderstandings:  and, take the whole diplomatic service of all nations as shown up by this great strain, it hasn’t stood the test very well.  I haven’t the respect for it that I had when I started.  Yet, God knows, I have a keen sympathy for it.  I’ve seen some of ’em displaced; some of ’em lie down; some of ’em die.

As I’ve got closer and closer to big men, as a rule they shrink up.  They are very much like the rest of us—­many of ’em more so.  Human nature is stripped in these times of most of its disguises, and men have to stand and be judged as a rule by their real qualities.  Among all the men in high place here, Sir Edward Grey stands out in my mind bigger, not smaller, than he stood in the beginning.  He’s a square, honourable gentleman, if there is one in this world.  And it is he, of course, with whom I have had all my troubles.  It’s been a truly great experience to work and to quarrel with such a man.  We’ve kept the best friendship—­a constantly ripening one.  There are others like him—­only smaller.

Yet they are all in turn set upon by the press or public opinion and hounded like criminals.  They try (somebody tries) to drive ’em out of office every once in a while.  If there’s anything I’m afraid of, it’s the newspapers.  The correspondents are as thick as flies in summer—­all hunting sensations—­especially the yellow American press.  I play the game with these fellows always squarely, sometimes I fear indiscreetly.  But what is discretion?  That’s the hardest question of all.  We have regular meetings.  I tell ’em everything I can—­always on the condition that I’m kept out of the papers.  If they’ll never mention me, I’ll do everything possible for them.  Absolute silence of the newspapers (as far as I can affect it) is the first rule of safety.  So far as I know, we’ve done fairly well; but always in proportion to silence.  I don’t want any publicity.  I don’t want any glory.  I don’t want any office.  I don’t want nothin’—­but to do this job squarely, to get out of this scrape, to go off somewhere in the sunshine and to see if I can slip back into my old self and see the world sane again.  Yet I’m immensely proud that I have had the chance to do some good—­to keep our record straight—­as far as I can, and to be of what service I can to these heroic people.