The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. "It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can save us. He has no imagination, no real generosity. ‘I’m on your side. The clock struck half-past ten. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. “If I do,” he said. He brightened as she took off her hood. As it happens sometimes, the idea stepped down from the dream into the reality; and he saw it more clearly now than he had seen it in the dream. ’ ‘Idiot.
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