The world was soon to be set on a course that was proletarian and ruthless; the fire of war was soon to devastate the green shoots that showed above ground in T. S. Eliot’s Criterion, in Tom Burns’ Essays in Order, in the Neo-Thomism of Maritain. The bitter frosts that followed the war were to finish the job. Scientific humanism at a crude level trampled the ground which had been leveled and seeded by philosophers of another sort. Politics ate up the autonomy which the arts had won. None of this did I foresee at the time; but I did see that a turning point had been reached and I knew that for me personally the turn things took was now for the worse. The kind of people who were now to be in the ascendancy would not be the sort of people we liked. We would be, culturally, in opposition. In the middle ages we would have been into exile with the King.