I am impelled to these sad thoughts by a pamphlet
which reached me this week from the United States of America. It is called England, A Dying Oligarchy; and is written, in a mood of serious anger, by Mr. Louis Bromfield. In his pre- Munich days Mr. Bromfield was a friendly man. He had a little house at Senlis where he grew marigolds and other annuals from the seed-packets of Vilmorin et Fils, or even (since he was at the time wholly unprejudiced) Sutton. Occasionally he would cross to London, where he would accept the hospitality of his many friends. In the intervals of these sedate and even sedative pursuits he would write novels. They were very good novels. Annie Spragge was a first-rate novel, and so was Twenty-Four Hours and indeed A Modern Hero. Moreover Mr. Bromfield had a sense of humour. I shall now tell a story about Mr. Bromfield in order to show what a nice man he really is.
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