So the Honourable on the tall four-in-hand saluted with marked emphasis the humble gig that pulled right out of the road to give him the way, and the Lady Blanche waved her hand to the dowdy in the dusty black silk with her sweetest smile.

The Honourable, when he went over the farm with his breechloader, invariably came in and drank a glass of the small beer.

The Lady Blanche, at least once in the autumn, rode up, alighted, and drank one glass of the home-made wine with the dowdy.

Her papa, the landlord, was an invalid, but he as invariably sent a splendid basket of hot-house grapes.

But Farmer M---- was behind the age.
Had he looked over the hedge in the evening, he might have seen a row of reapers walking down the road at the sudden sound of a jingling bell behind them, open their line, and wheel like a squad, part to the right and part to the left, to let the bicycle pass.