chilly game. Well, of course, one might speak at the Union, said the
persevering friend, insisting, it seemed, on finding Peter a career.
"Don't they talk about politics?" enquired Peter. "I couldn't do that,
you know. I don't approve of politics. If ever I have a vote I shall sell
it to the highest female bidder. Fancy being a Liberal or a Conservative,
out of all the nice things there are in the world to be! There are
health-fooders, now. I'd rather be that. And teetotallers. A man told me
he was a teetotaller to-day. I'll go in for that if you like, because
I don't much like wine. And I hate beer. These are rather nice
chocolates--I mean, they were."

The indefatigable friend had further informed him that one might be a
Fabian and have a red tie, and encourage the other Fabians to wash. Or
one might ride.

"One might--" Peter had made a suggestion of his own--"ride a motor
bicycle. I saw a man on one to-day; I mean he had been on it--it was on
him at the moment; it had chucked him off and was dancing on him, and
something that smelt was coming out of a hole. He was such a long way
from home; I was sorry about it."

His friend had said, "Serve him right. Brute," expressing the general
feeling of the moment about men who rode motor bicycles.

"Isn't it funny," Peter had reflectively said. "They must get such an
awful headache first--and then to be chucked off and jumped on so hard,
and covered with the smelly stuff--and then to have to walk home dragging
it, when it's deformed and won't run on its wheels. Unless, of course,
one is blown up into little bits and is at rest.... But it is so awfully,
frightfully ugly, to look at and to smell and to hear. Like your