For the first time in my life I was grieved to the
bone at the inadequacy of my wardrobe, and even when I had donned my
Sunday best my appearance was undoubtedly villainous from the London point
of view. I feathered myself as finely as my resources permitted, but it
was a homely, uncouth yeoman that raced downstairs and awaited her coming.
I drew the curtains, lit the candles, kicked the fire into a blaze, and
built it up with fresh logs.
It would be impossible for me to set down the hubbub of thoughts and
ideas that filled my mind. I had been plunged into a new world, and
floundered about in it pretty hopelessly, I can tell you. The days of
knight-errantry had come over again, and chance, mightier even than King
Arthur, had commanded me to serve a sweet lady in distress. But I had had
no training, no preliminary squireship, in which I could learn how things
were done by watching brave and accomplished knights do them. I had lived
among the parts of speech, not among the facts of life. I could hit a bird
on the wing, snare a rabbit, ride like a saddle, angle for jack and trout,
strike like a sledge-hammer, swim like a fish--and that was all.
Pages:
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42