From The Grinnell Review
Down Holly Street the tide had set in for church. It was a proper, dilatory tide. Every silk-hat glistened, every shoe was blacked, the flowers on the women's hats were as fresh as the daffodils against the house fronts. Few met face to face, now and then a faster walker would catch up with acquaintances and join them or, with a flash of raised hat, bow, and pass on down the stream.
Then the current met an obstacle. A man, young and graceful and very much preoccupied, walked through the church-goers, faced in the opposite direction. His riding breeches and boots showed in spite of the loose overcoat worn to cover them. He bowed continually, like royalty from a landau, almost as mechanically, and answered the remarks that greeted him.
"Hello, Geth."
"Hello."
"Good morning, Mr. Gething. Not going to church this morning." This from a friend of his mother.
"Good morning. No, not this morning." He met a chum.
"Good riding day, eh?"
"Great."
"Well, Geth, don't break your neck."