the
sweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed.
When he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his
forehead. Nobody buys a watch.

Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two
old, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob
of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks,
and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the
hill.

Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his
banner. He is here "for one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels
Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling
encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and
swearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before
him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the
Professor's quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little
children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping
from behind a tree.

The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! The
public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the
pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of
dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek
of beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of
voices.

The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside
the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the
mouth of a sweet-jar.

And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs,
and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat,
shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by
something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them--drawn up into
the full, bright, dazzling radiance to... what?

14. AN IDEAL FAMILY.

That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the
swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old
Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring--warm, eager,
restless--was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front
of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on
his arm. And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once more
and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the
late sun was still shining, curiously co