d "fast"
inclinations, who smokes a cigarette and ogles the girls, and utters
sentiments of profound ennui in a light boyish tenor voice. He is
the son of an English nobleman who has a Welsh estate, upon which he
passes a portion of his time, and can trace his lineage back to one of
the Norman adventurers who came over with William the Conqueror. For
an example of an older aristocracy than this, however, observe the
ancient couple sitting near us in the shadow of a cliff-rock, the wife
with a high-bridged nose and puffs of gray hair on her temples, the
husband with an easy-fitting hat and a coat-collar which rolls so high
as to give the impression he has no neck. These are aristocrats who,
although untitled and owners only of a few modest acres back in
Carmarthenshire, descend from ancestors that looked down on William
the Conqueror as a plebeian upstart.

There are bathers in the surf, but they are so far away from the
throngs on this vast plain of beach that they are as unindividual
as if they were puppets. One's most intimate friend could not be
recognized without the aid of a glass. The bathing-machines, which
serve in lieu of the huts common at American seaside resorts, are
merely huts on wheels instead of huts in stationary rows. They are
cared for by women, who escort you to the door of an untenanted hut,
collect sixpence and retire. You enter, and disrobe at your leisure.
The machine proves to be a snug box lighted by one little unglazed
window not large enough for you to put your head through, and having a
solid shutter. If you close this shutter the box is as dark as night,
for it is well built, with hardly a crevice in wall or roof or floor.
A small and very bad looking-glass hangs on the wall, and there is a
bench to sit on: that is the extent of the furniture. You have been
provided with towels and with the regulation bathing-dress for
men--linen breeches, to wit. While you are contemplating this garment
and questioning of your modesty as to the propriety of donning it,
there is a sound of rattling iron outside, and a tap on your door as a
warning that your machine is about to start. The machine is dragged
in lumbering fashion out into the sea by an antediluvian horse with
a small boy astride, and there the boy unhitches the traces from the
machine and goes ashore, leaving you with the waves breaking on
the steps before your door. You peep out dubiously. A shoal of
naked-shouldered men are swimming and spl