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" a miracle-worker, no less than a miracle-worker," said Madge. "I always knew that you would astonish our weak minds. I feel like the Queen of Sheba."

Lucia laughed.

"I am sorry for that," she said, "because the Queen of Sheba was rather paltry. She got carried away by a Semitic and ostentatious display of wealth. But you haven't explained why you feel like her."

"Because there is no need. But if you like explanations the month is November, and we ought all to be tucked up in our horrible country-houses, being privileged to dine every evening with a lot of sleepy men who have been shooting or hunting all day, and want to go to bed. Instead, here we all are in the most civilized place in England, behaving exactly as if it was June, though luckily it is not so hot. It is a miracle, and a very nice one. Pheasants, or rather the necessity of killing them, have been the curse of my life. It is so like England to perpetuate a breed of creatures merely for the purpose of slaughtering them. It is like bringing murderers and would-be suicides back to life that they may be up to being hanged. Foxes also. Don't let us start for the play just yet. Let us miss the first act and talk. I have things to say."

"I too," said Lucia quickly.

"Then you shall say them next. But I must pay my tribute-money. For years we have all got dreadfully bored in the country in November, and knew it. But we sat there and were bored without attempting to remedy it, except by going to London first thing in the morning and returning to dinner. Sunday in the country, too! What a deplorable day! Heron always insisted on everybody going to church. And the chants invariably gave me a bilious attack. Now you, for this year anyhow, have changed all that."