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always hopelessly entangled. The boy was too small to know much about anything.
One day when we four were mooching along a country lane we were overtaken by a big car which, with shrieking brakes, pulled up just in front of us and four excited people streamed out and ran to us. I was not at all pleased to see them. They were Alma and Chrissie and Kimberley and my old friend, Bill Barker, who had had that bright idea to * Cheer old Hep up.' In the face of that great kindness I had to give way and be glad. The two girls took the children in hand and the men took charge of me and they all did everything they could to make us forget. At the least they dulled the first sharp edge of grief, and in the end they took us home.
A personality that impinged upon me with considerable force during the first World War was that of Temple Thurston. The Government appeared to have got it into their heads that the end of the war might be brought nearer if a man like Thurston were to write a number of short films with a propaganda flavour. They introduced me to him and we settled down to a close collaboration. He was tremendously keen to find out all that he possibly could of the possibilities and practices of film production and particularly the relationship of author to producer and where the influence of the one ended and the other began. Seeing that he was a very nice fellow and that we got on very well together, I was just as keen to impart my views upon the subject to him and to discuss with him what I thought the function of the producer should be.
He practically lived in my studio nearly all day when I was at work and came home with me in the evening to continue our long talks upon every subject under the sun, but particularly films. He came to live at Walton so as to be on the spot but he had previously had rooms in London in Adelphi Terrace on the Thames Embankment. One evening when I went to see him there I told him how I had admired a view of the Lot's Road power station in the gloaming, its four tall chimneys dark against the setting sunlight, the brilliant effect of the water and the one dark tug-boat with its black smoke and its bright red port light, its hull churning up the smooth water as it came down the stream towards me.
When I went to see him again he showed me with pride how he had painted this scene in oils from my description. I was horrified to find that he had painted the tug-boat's port light
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