by the vulgarity of Low Covey, by the grossness which seemed to revel
in poverty and dirt. But when she cast her eyes round her own bare
walls, looked at her sheetless bed, a shiver ran over her.

'These are my people,' she said aloud. The candle, clamouring for the
snuffers, guttered, sank low, nearly went out.

Shivering again before the omen, she trimmed the wick. She returned the
book to Farwell by slipping it on the table next day. He took it without
a word but returned at half past six as before.

'Well?' he asked with a faint smile.

'Thank you so much,' said Victoria. 'It's wonderful.'

'Wonderful indeed? Most commonplace, don't you think?'

'Oh, no,' said Victoria. 'It's extraordinary, it's like . . . like
light.'

Farwell's eyes suddenly glittered.

'Ah,' he said dreamily, 'light! light in this, the outer darkness.'

Victoria looked at him, a question in her eyes.

'If only we could all see,' he went on. 'Then, as by a touch of a
magician's wand, flowers would crowd out the thistles, the thistles that
the asses eat and thank their God for. It is in our hands to make this
the Happy Valley and we make it the Valley of the Shadow of Death.'

He paused for a moment. Victoria felt her pulse quicken.

'Yes,' she said, 'I think I understand. It's because we don't understand
that we suffer. We're not cruel, are we? we're stupid.'

'Stupid?' A ferocious intonation had come into Farwell's voice. 'I
should say so! Forty million men, women and children sweat their lives
out day by day so that four million may live idly and become too heavy
even to think. I could forgive them if they thought, but the world
contains only two types: Lazarus with poor man's gout and Dives with
fatty degeneration of the brain.'

Victoria felt nervous. Passion shook the man's hands as he clutched the
marble top of the table.

'Mr Farwell,' she faltered, 'I don't want to be stupid. I want to
understand things. I want to know why we slave twelve hours a day when
others do nothing and, oh, can it be altered?'

Farwell had started at the mention of his name. His passion had suddenly
fallen.

'Altered? oh, yes,' he stammered, 'that's if the race lasts long enough.
'Sometimes I think, as I see men struggling to get on top of one
another, like crabs in a bucket . . . Like crabs in a bucket,' he
repeated dreamily, visualising the simile. 'But I cannot draw men from
stones,' he said smiling; 'it is not yet time for Deucalion. I'll b