to Khartum. Even by later standards, it must have been a very gleeful
holiday for a young man, and it made the tragedy of his next experiences
all the darker. A week after his return his father, who was a widower,
announced himself ruined, and committed suicide by means of an
unscheduled opiate.

At one blow Barnet found himself flung out of the possessing, spending,
enjoying class to which he belonged, penniless and with no calling by
which he could earn a living. He tried teaching and some journalism, but
in a little while he found himself on the underside of a world in which
he had always reckoned to live in the sunshine. For innumerable men such
an experience has meant mental and spiritual destruction, but Barnet, in
spite of his bodily gravitation towards comfort, showed himself when put
to the test, of the more valiant modern quality. He was saturated with
the creative stoicism of the heroic times that were already dawning,
and he took his difficulties and discomforts stoutly as his appointed
material, and turned them to expression.

Indeed, in his book, he thanks fortune for them. 'I might have lived and
died,' he says, 'in that neat fool's paradise of secure lavishness above
there. I might never have realised the gathering wrath and sorrow of the
ousted and exasperated masses. In the days of my own prosperity things
had seemed to me to be very well arranged.' Now from his new point of
view he was to find they were not arranged at all; that government was
a compromise of aggressions and powers and lassitudes, and law a
convention between interests, and that the poor and the weak, though
they had many negligent masters, had few friends.

'I had thought things were looked after,' he wrote. 'It was with a kind
of amazement that I tramped the roads and starved--and found that no one