the end, and then seriously gallop down the mile, and after that I shall be able to speak. And why isn't Maud here? She is as bad as Edgar; they both want to sleep and sleep. Aren't they darlings? They really were made for each other. Now ride!"
The day was of midsummer; it was no apology for blue that domed the sky; the colour would have been considered blue anywhere. Rain had fallen during the night, and now, as Lucia looked on the lime-leaves, clean and varnished with the fall, and on the pearl-laden grass, she remembered having woke once during the night while it was still dark, and having heard the beautiful whisper of its outpouring. Across the path from the Serpentine came belated bathers, towel on neck, who, like-minded with her, made the most of the morning hour when all London forgets itself, and is country again. As they raced, tan-scattering, past the Knightsbridge Barracks, some bugle sounded, and there was a stir of erect figures. A little mist, born of the night-rain, hung in the air, and the steeple of the Albert Monument just pricked it, showing gold against the blue. Houses were a little veiled in these ascending vapours, and the roadway outside the Park was damp with them, so that Prince's Gate looked like a line of Venetian palaces, with the dark water of a canal (the wet wood of the street) reflecting them below.
Lucia turned to her companion, snuffing in a great restful breath of the cool morning.
"Don't speak," she said, "nor will I. But, oh, it's so nice!"
They cantered round the short bend at the top of the mile, and then turned on to the straight.
"Now," she said.
They started level, and she had to check her mare to let the shorter stride of Charlie's cob keep pace. There was no wind; the elms by the side of the Serpentine were towers of motionless leaf, but the movement of their going made a soft, steady breeze to hum against them. Of other sound there was none, except the soft rhythmical chant of the horses' hoofs, scattering the loose brown stuff behind them. Occasionally one or the other of their mounts tossed a bridle, with a little jingle of a bit, or the mare blew out an audible breath from her wide nostrils. Then, too soon, the mile was over, and Lucia drew rein, with a great deal to say.
"The complicated life!" she said. "That is what I love. Oh, how I despise simplicity of existence; to be content with it shows a very low vitality, or very high stupidity, probably
