just splendid how receptive and progressive working people are in these
days."

"I was meditating suicide," replied Sarah Brown candidly, if faintly. "I
am a stricken and useless parasite on the face of your fine earth. But
my hoe is too blunt."

"I have a pocket-knife with three blades I could lend you," said
Richard, slapping himself enquiringly over several pockets. "Or would
you rather try a natty little spell I thought of this morning while I
was shaving. I think any one stricken might find it rather useful."

"Ah, give it to me. Give it to me," said Sarah Brown.

The pain was like a wave breaking upon her, carrying her away from her
safe shore of shadow, to be lost in seething and suffocating seas
without rest. Her eyes felt dried up with fever, and whenever she shut
them, the darkness was filled with a jumble of nauseating squares in
blue upon a mustard-coloured background. The smell of beans was
terrible.

Richard fumbled with something very badly folded up in newspaper. He
also tried ineffectively to light a match by wiping it helplessly
against his riding breeches. He seemed to have none of the small skill
in details that comes to most people before they grow up. He did
everything as if he were doing it for the first time.

"I had nothing but the _Morning Post_ to wrap it in," he murmured. "I'm
afraid that may have spoilt the magic a little."