white night be inscribed in the book of Fate, how changed the mood as
soon as the light is out! At once, almost, you lose that sense of
impending slumber and become wide awake, clear-eyed and keen of brain.
Something occurs to interest your mind and you meditate perspicaciously
thereon. Another thought succeeds, and another, and you grow more
wakeful every moment. Soon you begin to say, "I must go to sleep now,"
and resolutely try to refuse to think. But resolution is vain before
insomnia. Eyelids may be tightly shut, but the masked eyeballs still
peer vigilantly into the void: hands may clench themselves in the
hopeless effort to compose the will and induce the wished-for slumber:
the alert body may strive to cheat itself by observing the accustomed
ritual--first on the right side, then left, then right again--in the
expectation of influencing mind by matter: droves of sheep may be
counted passing through innumerable gates--poems recited till the very
thought of verse revolts--numerals repeated by the ticking brain--but
still you are far from the haven. It seems that

"Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world"

could bestow the most blessed of all boons. And at last you give up the
unequal struggle and try to make the best of it.

Failing drugs--and one has to be a smart society lady, a broken man or
woman, for them--there are various palliatives. You may turn on the
light and read till sleep comes with soothing fingers upon tired brows.
Or, if young and enterprising, you can go for a walk and see the dawn.
Or sometimes an impromptu bedroom picnic--bread and cheese and a bottle
of beer raided thief-wise from the pantry, taking great care not to let
the stairs creak and alarm the house--may have excellent results. These,
and a score of similar expedients, may be recommended with assurance to
the patient. And if they fail, at least they have passed an hour or so
more pleasantly than in mere acquiescence.

Beatrice lay awake, sorely against her will. She knew that sleep was
what she needed, and would need still more within some fourteen hours.
The strain of acting, followed by her preposterous adventure at the
magnanimous churchwarden's, had used up more of her nervous resources
than was desirable. Sleep was therefore the obvious thing. But alas! it
proved the impossible thing, too, and she lay restless, aglow with
thought, waiting impatiently for what she knew would not come.

What