t's the same," said Michael. "They'll sleep all night
and they'll sleep the most of the day. Not a tap of work will be done on
the island, summer or winter."

"But," said Miss Clarence, "how do they live?"

"They'll not live long," said Michael. "Amn't I telling you that they're
dying out? It's the sleep that's killing them."

Miss Clarence drew a large notebook and a pencil from her bag. Michael
was greatly pleased. He went on to tell her that the Inishrua islanders
had become enormously rich during the war. Wrecked ships had drifted on
to their coasts in dozens. They had gathered in immense stores of oil,
petrol, cotton, valuable wood and miscellaneous merchandise of every
kind. There was no need for them to work any more. Digging, ploughing,
fishing, toil of every kind was unnecessary. All they had to do was
eat and sleep, waking up now and then for an hour or two to sell their
spoils to eager buyers who came to them from England.

Michael could have gone on talking about the immense riches of the
islanders. He would have liked to enlarge upon the evil consequences of
having no work to do, the inevitable extinction which waits for those
who merely sleep. But he was conscious that Peter Gahan was becoming
uneasy. As a good socialist, Peter knew that work is an unnecessary
evil, and that men will never be healthy or happy until they escape from
the tyranny of toil He was not likely to listen patiently to Michael's
doctrine that a race of sleepers is doomed to extinction. At any moment
he might burst into the conversation argumentatively. And Michael Kane
did not want that. He liked to do all the talking himself. He switched
off the decay of the islanders and started a new subject which he hoped
would be equally interesting to Miss Clarence.

"It's a lucky day you have for visiting the island," he said. "But sure
you know that yourself, and there's no need for me to be telling you."

Beyond the fact that the day was moderately fine, Miss Clarence did
not know that there was anything specially lucky about it. She looked
enquiringly at Michael Kane.

"It's the day of the King's wedding," said Michael.

To Miss Clarence "the King" suggested his Majesty George V. But he
married some time ago, and she did not see why the islanders should
celebrate an event of which most people have forgotten the date. She
cast round in her mind for another monarch likely to be married; but she
could not think of any. There are not, i