passer-by,--this English public lover, male or female, is a most
interesting study, for we have not his exact counterpart in America.
He is thoroughly respectable, I should think, my urban Colin. He
does not have the air of a gay deceiver roving from flower to
flower, stealing honey as he goes; he looks, on the contrary, as if
it were his intention to lead Phoebe to the altar on the next bank
holiday; there is a dead calm in his actions which bespeaks no other
course. If Colin were a Don Juan, surely he would be a trifle more
ardent, for there is no tropical fervour in his matter-of-fact
caresses. He does not embrace Phoebe in the park, apparently,
because he adores her to madness; because her smile is like fire in
his veins, melting down all his defences; because the intoxication
of her nearness is irresistible; because, in fine, he cannot wait
until he finds a more secluded spot: nay, verily, he embraces her
because--tell me, infatuated fruiterers, poulterers, soldiers,
haberdashers (limited), what is your reason? For it does not appear
to the casual eye. Stormy weather does not vex the calm of the Park
Lover, for 'the rains of Marly do not wet' when one is in love. By
a clever manipulation of four arms and four hands they can manage an
umbrella and enfold each other at the same time, though a feminine
macintosh is well known to be ill adapted to the purpose, and a
continuous drizzle would dampen almost any other lover in the
universe.

The park embrace, as nearly as I can analyse it, seems to be one
part instinct, one part duty, one part custom, and one part reflex
action. I have purposely omitted pleasure (which, in the analysis
of the ordinary embrace, reduces all the other ingredients to an
almost invisible faction), because I fail to find it; but I am
willing to believe that in some rudimentary form it does exist,