But there are other kinds of dogs. Gentlest of readers, have you ever
passed a few days at Tunbridge Wells? It lies on one of the roads that run
from London to the Channel and for several hundred years persons have gone
there to take the waters against the more fashionable ailments. Its chief
fame was in the days when rich folk, to ward off for the season a touch of
ancestral gout, travelled down from London in their coaches. We may fancy
Lord Thingumdo crossing his sleek legs inside or putting his head to the
window on the change of horses. He has outriders and a horn to sound his
coming. His Lordship has a liver that must be mended, but also he has
a weakness for the gaming table. Or Lady Euphemia, wrapped in silks,
languishes mornings in her lodgings with a latest novel, but goes forth at
noon upon the Pantilles to shop in the stalls. A box of patches must be
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