To all men of good-will in my generation, the death of Chesterton appears (in various degrees) like an overshadowing of the sun. His philosophy, or some echo of it, gave colour to the things of this world, and was the earnest of better things to come. Many others, like myself, must have been so saturated with his thought that every turn of the road has reminded us of him in these last few days, bringing with it a fresh ache of memory. (As we sat at luncheon after we had laid him to rest at Beaconsfield, I was trying to remember a couplet of his about the Saracen's Head, and found myself refusing, in his honour, a biscuit with my cheese.) This, even in small things; but there are deeper memories and a deeper sense of loss.