The enthusiasm was tremendous. Rut the Vicar
looked anxious, and whispered to the Squire.
The Squire shrugged his shoulders and murmured something,
and the Vicar rose. They would be all glad to
hear, he said, glad but not surprised, that with his
customary generosity the Squire had decided to throw
open his own beautiful gardens and pleasure-grounds
to them on Peace Day and to take upon his own shoulders
the burden of entertaining them. He would suggest
that they now give Sir John three hearty cheers.
This was done, and the proceedings closed.
A Train of Thought
On the same day I saw two unsettling announcements
in the papers. The first said simply, underneath
a suitable photograph, that the ski-ing season was
now in full swing in Switzerland; the second explained
elaborately why it cost more to go from London to the
Riviera and back than from the Riviera to London and
back. Both announcements unsettled me considerably.
They would upset anybody for whom the umbrella season
in London was just opening, and who was wondering what
was the cost of a return ticket to Manchester.
At first I amused myself with trying to decide whether
I should prefer it to be the Riviera or Switzerland
this Christmas. Switzerland won; not because
it is more invigorating, but because I had just discovered
a woollen helmet and a pair of ski-ing boots, relics
of an earlier visit. I am thus equipped for Switzerland
already, whereas for the Riviera I should want several
new suits. One of the chief beauties of Switzerland
(other than the mountains) is that it is so uncritical
of the visitor’s wardrobe. So long as he
has a black coat for the evenings, it demands nothing
more. In the day-time he may fall about in whatever
he pleases. Indeed, it is almost an economy to
go there now and work off some of one’s moth-collecting
khaki on it. The socks which are impossible with
our civilian clothes could renew their youth as the
middle pair of three, inside a pair of ski-ing boots.
Yet to whichever I went this year, Switzerland or
the Riviera, I think it would be money wasted.
I am one of those obvious people who detest an uncomfortable
railway journey, and the journey this year will certainly
be uncomfortable. But I am something more than
this; I am one of those uncommon people who enjoy
a comfortable railway journey. I mean that I
enjoy it as an entertainment in itself, not only as
a relief from the hair-shirts of previous journeys.
I would much sooner go by wagonlit from Calais
to Monte Carlo in twenty hours, than by magic carpet
in twenty seconds. I am even looking forward to
my journey to Manchester, supposing that there is
no great rush for the place on my chosen day.
The scenery as one approaches Manchester may not be
beautiful, but I shall be quite happy in my corner
facing the engine.
