I have been taken out for walks; but that is another matter. Even
while I trotted prattling by my nurse's side I regretted the good old
days when I had, and wasn't, a perambulator. When I grew up it seemed
to me that the one advantage of living in London was that nobody ever
wanted me to come out for a walk. London's very drawbacks--its endless
noise and hustle, its smoky air, the squalor ambushed everywhere in
it--assured this one immunity. Whenever I was with friends in the
country, I knew that at any moment, unless rain were actually falling,
some man might suddenly say `Come out for a walk!' in that sharp
imperative tone which he would not dream of using in any other
connexion. People seem to think there is something inherently noble
and virtuous in the desire to go for a walk. Any one thus desirous
feels that he has a right to impose his will on whomever he sees
comfortably settled in an arm-chair, reading. It is easy to say simply
`No' to an old friend. In the case of a mere acquaintance one wants
some excuse. `I wish I could, but'--nothing ever occurs to me except
`I have some letters to write.' This formula is unsatisfactory in
three ways. (1) It isn't believed. (2) It compels you to rise from
your chair, go to the writing-table, and sit improvising a letter to
somebody until the walkmonger (just not daring to call you liar and
hypocrite) shall have lumbered out of the room.
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