only a sleep-walking; only very rarely did she awake for a moment and
feel ashamed to see how alert was the world about her.

So she thought of Richard, not of Richard's Richard, but of some pale
private Richard of her own.

The approach of Richard upon a white horse for some time seemed only an
extension of her dream. It was only when she realised that he was riding
up her bean-row, and partially undoing the work of her hoe, that she
awoke suddenly with a start, and caught and tore her breath upon a pin
of pain.

It seemed that the afternoon had now long possessed the fields, it had
wakened into a live and electric blue the Enchanted Forest which she had
last noticed shimmering in its noon green.

All the workers at the approach of Richard were working busily, bent
ostentatiously in the form of hairpins up and down their rows. The
dragon was rippling anxiously along at the heels of the white horse; a
helpless hoping for the best expressed itself in every spike along his
spine.

"I don't really know why she's idling like that," Sarah Brown heard him
say in his breathy pathetic voice. "I left her hard at work. They're all
the same when my back's turned. A fellow needs to have eyes at the tip
of his tail."

"Are you suffering from that Leverhulme six-hour-working-day sort of
feeling?" asked Richard politely of Sarah Brown, in the manner of an
advertisement of a cure for indigestion, as he approached. "I think it's