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that he's frightened of something. To some extent he's frightened of the world he doesn't understand, of the intricacies of human thought that are not possible to him, because he doesn't have the kind of a mind that can think in terms of what's right and wrong, what's good and bad, what's democratic and undemocratic. He had never thought in those terms, and had never been challenged or asked to do so before. So I have grown to have considerably softer feelings for him.

I think I'm wrong when I say that I never saw him but once again. I've seen him since. As a matter of fact, not too long ago, when he took some public action that was praiseworthy - I can't quite remember what it was - I wrote him a very nice letter, making no reference to our earlier conversations. I never mentioned those conversations to him. I didn't want to apologize for what I'd said, and I thought it would merely embarrass him if I appeared to even remember it. Whatever he has worked out in his own mind as an estimate of me is for him to say in his memoirs, but he must have thought me pretty much awful on that particular night.

I've only told this to one other person. This was the circumstance. The person to whom I told it was