Miss D.'s Voice. Very well, then. Just wipe some of the dust off the mud-guards, because I shall want it again after lunch. And mind you don't scratch the enamel taking it in.
Stubbs. Very good, Miss. I'll be keerful.
[Miss Diana's steps die away upon the cobbles.
Bayard (to himself). She's gone—without even asking after me! What has she been out in—a bath chair? I'm sure she must be ill.
Stubbs (to the Bicycle, as he wheels it in). 'Ere, steady now, 'old up, can't ye? And keep that blarsted near pedal o' yourn off o' my enamel. Blest if I wouldn't rather rub down arf a dozen 'unters nor one o' them yere bloomin' bi-cycles. I know where I am with a 'orse; but these 'ere little, twisty, spidery wheels——Come over, will ye. I'll lean ye up agen 'ere till I've 'ad my dinner.
"It must be a sort of animal, I suppose."
[He places the machine against a partition next to Bayard's stall, and goes out.
Bayard (to himself, as he inspects his neighbour with the corner of his eye). It's not a bath-chair; it's one of these bicycles. It must be a sort of animal, I suppose, or Stubbs wouldn't have spoken to it. I should like to ask it one or two questions. (He gets his neck over the partition, and breathes gently through his nostrils upon the handle-bars.) Excuse me, but do you understand horse-language at all?