time," he said, "we had niggers to work in our gardens. And now we are all niggers."
The Major's keen eyes studied him. "What's the matter?"
"I've been picking okra—for soup, and I'm a Paine of King's Crest."
"Well, you peeled potatoes in France."
"That's different."
"Why should it be different? If a thing is for the moment your job you are never too big for it."
"I wish I had stayed in the Army. I wish I had never come back."
The Major whistled for a moment, thoughtfully. Then he said, "Look here, Paine, hadn't you better talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"That's for you to tell me. There's something worrying you. You are more tragic than—Hamlet——"