It was March 1914, when I left England, and, apart from leaves every ten years or so, I didn't see much of my own country until we all came back in '47. Oh, I knew things had changed, of course. People told you all the time the way it was going – going to the dogs, as the Blimps are supposed to say. But it seemed very unreal to me, out there. The England I remembered was the one I left in 1914, and I was happy to go on remembering it that way. Beside, I had the Maharajah's army to command – that was my world, and I loved it, all of it. At the time it looked like going on forever. When I think: of it now, it seems like a dream. If only it could have gone on forever. Those long cool evenings up in the hills, everything purple and golden. [My emphasis] 1