“Indeed he isn’t. Just fancy if he was!”
She giggled convulsively at the thought. It was evident that Mr. Dick, though not a Scot, belonged to some part of the country where decorum of demeanour and a certain gravity are expected from Members of Parliament.
“‘Fare thee well,’” shouted Mr. Dick from the end of the platform, “‘and if for ever, still for ever fare thee well.’”
He was wheeling the two bicycles out of the station, and was followed by the obviously reluctant Mr. Sanders.
“Richard, Richard!” said his wife.
Mr. Dick paused and looked round.
“Have you got your sandwiches? Don’t go without your sandwiches. I’m sure they’re in my hold-all.”
But Mr. Dick patted his coat pocket triumphantly. He had the sandwiches. He was not the kind of man, so his attitude suggested, the feeble and inefficient kind of man, who goes off without his sandwiches. A moment later, having compelled Mr. Sanders to mount, he was cycling gaily down the road towards Clonmore.
“Richard, Richard!” shouted his wife again. But it was too late. Her voice did not reach him.