bought. A lace flounce has caught her eye. Bless her dear eyes, as she
bends upon her purchase she is fair to look upon. The Grand Rout is set for
tonight. Who knows but that the Duke will put the tender question and will
ask her to name the happy day?

But these golden days are past. Tunbridge Wells has sunk from fashion. The
gaming tables are gone. A band still plays mornings in the Pantilles--or
did so before the war--but cheaper gauds are offered in the shops. Emerald
brooches are fallen to paste. In all the season there is scarcely a single
demand for a diamond garter. If there were now a Rout, the only dancers
would be stiff shadows from the past. The healing waters still trickle from
the ground and an old woman serves you for a penny, but the miracle has
gone. The old world is cured and dead.

Tunbridge Wells is visited now chiefly by old ladies whose husbands--to
judge by the black lace caps--have left Lombard Street for heaven. At the
hotel where I stopped, which was at the top of the Commons outside the
thicker town, I was the only man in the breakfast room. Two widows, each
with a tiny dog on a chair beside her, sat at the next table. This was
their conversation:

"Did you hear her last night?"

"Was it Flossie that I heard?"

"Yes. The poor dear was awake all night. She got her feet wet yesterday
when I let her run upon the grass."

But after breakfast--if the day is sunny and the wind sits in a favoring
quarter--one by one the widows go forth in their chairs. These are wicker
contrivances that hang between three wheels. Burros pull them, and men walk
alongside to hold their bridles. Down comes the widow. Down comes a maid
with her wraps. Down comes a maid with Flossie. The wraps are adjusted. The
widow is handed in. Her feet are wound around with comforters against a
draft. Her salts rest in her lap. Her ample bag of knitting is safe aboard.
Flossie is placed beside her. Proot! The donkey starts.

All morning the widow sits in the Pantilles and listens to the band and
knits. Flossie sits on the flagging at her feet with an intent eye upon the
ball of worsted. Twice in a morning--three times if the gods are kind--the
ball rolls to the pavement. Flossie has been waiting so long for this
to happen. It is the bright moment of her life--the point and peak of
happiness. She darts upon it. She paws it exultantly for a moment. Brief is
the rainbow and brief the Borealis. The finger of Time is swift.

The p