When the day came that I really was overpowered with work, that my table was strewn with commissions, that I had secretaries hard at it, sorting, arranging, looking out photographs or figures; as I dictated between whiles and they typed, a horrible pain, like hot sand, came in my eyes. At first intermittently, then more frequently, till at last a hideous dread of blindness—like my father’s—seized hold of me. Off to Sir Anderson Critchett I went. “Overwork, overstrain; you must give up your work for a time.” “I can’t,” I replied. “Then you must be responsible for the consequences.” Lotions, blisters behind the ears, brought improvement, but still that hot, burning sand was there. To Sir John Tweedy I then repaired. “Inflammation of the eyes from overwork; you must rest the eyes. Never work at night, and always wear a black shade when possible.” So I gained nothing fresh from him. Both gave me exactly the same advice and warned me of danger. I wore that hideous shade for a year, tore it off the moment a stranger appeared—never went out at night. The glaring lights of the theatre had become positive torture; but, in spite of all, I managed somehow to keep up my work and write another book. Gradually, by resting my eyes whenever possible, never reading unless obliged, and sitting much in the dark, my eyes became better and remain better. And thus the last days of the great Century of Progress sped into the realm of past ages. But when the newcomer crossed the threshold of Time, with all the new century’s opportunities and hopes, I was far away under the Southern Cross amid the brilliant colouring and luxuriant vegetation of the tropics. [Illustration: THE WRITER—IN DIVIDED RIDING SKIRT, SOUTHERN MEXICO, 1900-1] CHAPTER XI MEXICO AS I SAW IT One day in July, 1900, I was explaining to my small boys that I was going off through Canada and America to Mexico to write a new book, to make some more money for bread and butter and school bills. One of them appeared distressed at the idea. At last, after a pause, he said: “Why don’t you go and sit in that shop in Regent Street with your hair hanging down, like those three girls do?” I looked surprised. “It would not be so tiring as travelling all that long way and writing another big book,” he explained, “and you would make just as much money, I am sure.” Lovely idea! But I dared not accept his suggestion, kindly meant though it was. A letter I wrote to a woman friend in 1900 has just come into my hands. It says: