e poster. Her costume
for cycling in hot weather is ideal. Old-fashioned landladies might
refuse her lunch, it is true; and a narrowminded police force might
desire to secure her, and wrap her in a rug preliminary to summonsing
her. But such she heeds not. Uphill and downhill, through traffic that
might tax the ingenuity of a cat, over road surfaces calculated to break
the average steam roller she passes, a vision of idle loveliness; her
fair hair streaming to the wind, her sylph-like form poised airily, one
foot upon the saddle, the other resting lightly upon the lamp. Sometimes
she condescends to sit down on the saddle; then she puts her feet on the
rests, lights a cigarette, and waves above her head a Chinese lantern.

Less often, it is a mere male thing that rides the machine. He is not so
accomplished an acrobat as is the lady; but simple tricks, such as
standing on the saddle and waving flags, drinking beer or beef-tea while
riding, he can and does perform. Something, one supposes, he must do to
occupy his mind: sitting still hour after hour on this machine, having no
work to do, nothing to think about, must pall upon any man of active
temperament. Thus it is that we see him rising on his pedals as he nears
the top of some high hill to apostrophise the sun, or address poetry to
the surrounding scenery.

Occasionally the poster pictures a pair of cyclists; and then one grasps
the fact how much superior for purposes of flirtation is the modern
bicycle to the old-fashioned parlour or the played-out garden gate. He
and she mount their bicycles, being careful, of course, that such are of
the right make. After that they have nothing to think about but the old
sweet tale. Down shady lanes, through busy towns on market days, merrily
roll the wheels of the "Bermondsey Company's Bottom Bracket Britain's
Best," or of the "Camberwell Company's Jointless Eureka." They need no
pedalling; they require no guiding. Give them their heads, and tell them
what time you want to get home, and that is all they ask. While Edwin
leans from his saddle to whisper the dear old nothings in Angelina's ear,
while Angelina's face, to hide its blushes, is turned towards the horizon
at the back, the magic bicycles pursue their even course.

And the sun is always shining and the roads are always dry. No stern
parent rides behind, no interfering aunt beside, no demon small boy
brother is peeping round the corner, there never comes a s