Presently
he adds that she is one of the most charming women he has ever known.
We pass an inn. He reads vapidly aloud to me: `The King's Arms.
Licensed to sell Ales and Spirits.' I foresee that during the rest of
the walk he will read aloud any inscription that occurs. We pass a
milestone. He points at it with his stick, and says `Uxminster. 11
Miles.' We turn a sharp corner at the foot of a hill. He points at the
wall, and says `Drive Slowly.' I see far ahead, on the other side of
the hedge bordering the high road, a small notice-board. He sees it
too. He keeps his eye on it. And in due course `Trespassers,' he says,
`Will Be Prosecuted.' Poor man!--mentally a wreck.
Luncheon at the A.s, however, salves him and floats him in full sail.
Behold him once more the life and soul of the party. Surely he will
never, after the bitter lesson of this morning, go out for another
walk. An hour later, I see him striding forth, with a new companion. I
watch him out of sight. I know what he is saying. He is saying that I
am rather a dull man to go a walk with. He will presently add that I
am one of the dullest men he ever went a walk with. Then he will
devote himself to reading out the inscriptions.
How comes it, this immediate deterioration in those who go walking for
walking's sake? Just what happens? I take it that not by his reasoning
faculties is a man urged to this enterprise.
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