"Who's that, then?" he imagined people
saying; and then, "Some'n pretty well orf--judge by the
bicycles." Then the imaginary spectators would fall a-talking of
the fashionableness of bicycling,--how judges And stockbrokers
and actresses and, in fact, all the best people rode, and how
that it was often the fancy of such great folk to shun the big
hotels, the adulation of urban crowds, and seek, incognito, the
cosy quaintnesses of village life. Then, maybe, they would think
of a certain nameless air of distinction about the lady who had
stepped across the doorway, and about the handsome,
flaxen-moustached, blue-eyed Cavalier who had followed her in,
and they would look one to another. "Tell you what it is," one of
the village elders would say--just as they do in novels--voicing
the thought of all, in a low, impressive tone: "There's such a
thinas entertaining barranets unawares-not to mention no higher
things--"
Such, I say, had been the filmy, delightful stuff in Mr.
Hoopdriver's head the moment before he heard that remark. But the
remark toppled him headlong. What the precise remark was need not
concern us. It was a casual piece of such satire as Strephon
delights in. Should you be curious, dear lady, as to its nature,
you have merely to dress yourself in a really modern cycling
costume, get one of the feeblest-looking of your men to escort
you, and ride out, next Saturday evening, to any public house
where healthy, homely people gather together. Then you will hear
quite a lot of the kind of thing Mr.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172