The Bicycle. You forget, my friend, I'm not a Boneshaker, I'm a Safety. Why, she'll just put her feet up on the rests, fold her arms, and leave the rest to me. She knows I can be trusted.
Bayard. Just tell me this before you go. Does—she doesn't pat you, or kiss you on your—er—handle-bar after a run, does she?
The Bicycle (turning its front wheel to reply, as Stubbs wheels it out). You don't imagine I should stand any sentimental rot of that sort, do you? She knows better than to try it on!
Bayard (to himself). I'm glad she doesn't kiss it. I don't think I could have stood that!
Same Scene. Some Hours Later.
Stubbs (enters, carrying a dilapidated machine with crumpled handles, a twisted saddle, and a front wheel distorted into an irregular pentagon). Well, I 'ope as 'ow this'll sarve as a lesson to 'er, I dew; a marcy she ain't broke her blessed little neck! (To the Bicycle.) No need to be hover and above purtickler 'bout scratchin' your enamel now, any'ow! (He pitches it into a corner, and goes.)
Bayard (after reconnoitring). You don't mean to say it's you!
The Bicycle. Me? of course it's me! A nice mess I'm in, too, entirely owing to her carelessness. Never put the brake on down that infernal hill, lost all control over me, and here I am, a wreck, Sir! Why, I had to be driven home, by a grinning groom, in a beastly dog-cart! Pleasant that!
Bayard. But she—Miss Diana—was she hurt? Not—not seriously, eh?
The Bicycle. Oh, of course you don't care what becomes of me so long as——She's all right enough—fell in a ditch, luckily for her, I came down on a heap of stones. It'll be weeks before I'm out of the repairer's hands.