It never occurs to HER leader
that the time has now arrived for him to turn round and get into the
cart. The pretty girl of Art rides her bicycle through the town on
market day, carrying a basket of eggs, and smiling right and left.
SHE never throws away both her handles and runs into a cow. The
pretty girl of Art goes trout fishing in open-work stockings, under
a blazing sun, with a bunch of dew-bespangled primroses in her hair;
and every time she gracefully flicks her rod she hauls out a salmon.
SHE never ties herself up to a tree, or hooks the dog. SHE never
comes home, soaked and disagreeable, to tell you that she caught
six, but put them all back again, because they were merely two or
three-pounders, and not worth the trouble of carrying. The pretty
girl of Art plays croquet with one hand, and looks as if she enjoyed
the game. SHE never tries to accidentally kick her ball into
position when nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she is
through a hoop that she knows she isn't.
She is a good, all-round sportswoman, is the pretty girl in the
picture. The only thing I have to say against her is that she makes
one dissatisfied with the girl out of the picture--the girl who
mistakes a punt for a teetotum, so that you land feeling as if you
had had a day in the Bay of Biscay; and who, every now and again,
stuns you with the thick end of the pole: the girl who does not
skate with her hands in her muff; but who, throwing them up to
heaven, says, "I'm going," and who goes, taking care that you go
with her: the girl who, as you brush her down, and try to comfort
her, explains to you indignantly that the horse took the corner too
sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl whose hair sea
water does NOT improve.
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