But these golden days are past.  Tunbridge Wells has sunk from fashion.  The gaming tables are gone.  A band still plays mornings in the Pantilles—­or did so before the war—­but cheaper gauds are offered in the shops.  Emerald brooches are fallen to paste.  In all the season there is scarcely a single demand for a diamond garter.  If there were now a Rout, the only dancers would be stiff shadows from the past.  The healing waters still trickle from the ground and an old woman serves you for a penny, but the miracle has gone.  The old world is cured and dead.

Tunbridge Wells is visited now chiefly by old ladies whose husbands—­to judge by the black lace caps—­have left Lombard Street for heaven.  At the hotel where I stopped, which was at the top of the Commons outside the thicker town, I was the only man in the breakfast room.  Two widows, each with a tiny dog on a chair beside her, sat at the next table.  This was their conversation: 

“Did you hear her last night?”

“Was it Flossie that I heard?”

“Yes.  The poor dear was awake all night.  She got her feet wet yesterday when I let her run upon the grass.”

But after breakfast—­if the day is sunny and the wind sits in a favoring quarter—­one by one the widows go forth in their chairs.  These are wicker contrivances that hang between three wheels.  Burros pull them, and men walk alongside to hold their bridles.  Down comes the widow.  Down comes a maid with her wraps.  Down comes a maid with Flossie.  The wraps are adjusted.  The widow is handed in.  Her feet are wound around with comforters against a draft.  Her salts rest in her lap.  Her ample bag of knitting is safe aboard.  Flossie is placed beside her.  Proot!  The donkey starts.

All morning the widow sits in the Pantilles and listens to the band and knits.  Flossie sits on the flagging at her feet with an intent eye upon the ball of worsted.  Twice in a morning—­three times if the gods are kind—­the ball rolls to the pavement.  Flossie has been waiting so long for this to happen.  It is the bright moment of her life—­the point and peak of happiness.  She darts upon it.  She paws it exultantly for a moment.  Brief is the rainbow and brief the Borealis.  The finger of Time is swift.

The poppy blooms and fades.  The maid captures the ball of worsted and restores it.

It lies in the widow’s lap.  The band plays.  The needles click to a long tune.  The healing waters trickle from the ground.  The old woman whines their merits.  Flossie sits motionless, her head cocked and her eye upon the ball.  Perhaps the god of puppies will again be good to her.

ROADS OF MORNING