Speaking of the future of the automobile, the Professor said,—­

“Cupid will never use the automobile, the little god is too conservative; fancy the dainty sprite with oil-can and waste instead of bow and arrow.  I can see him with smut on the end of his mischievous nose and grease on the seat of the place where his trousers ought to be.  What a picture he would make in overalls and jumper, leather jacket and cap; he could not use dart or arrow, at best he could only run the machine hither and thither bunting people into love—­knocking them senseless, which is perhaps the same thing.  No, no, Cupid will never use the automobile.  Imagine Aphrodite in goggles, clothed in dust, her fair skin red from sunburn and glistening with cold cream; horrible nightmare of a mechanical age, avaunt!

“The chariots of High Olympus were never greased, they used no gasoline, the clouds we see about them are condensed zephyrs and not dust.  Omniscient Jove never used a monkey-wrench, never sought the elusive spark, never blew up a four-inch tire with a half-inch pump.  Even if the automobile could surmount the grades, it would never be popular on Olympian heights.  Mercury might use it to visit Vulcan, but he would never go far from the shop.

“As for conditions here on earth, why should a young woman go riding with a man whose hands, arms, and attention are entirely taken up with wheels, levers, and oil-cups?  He can’t even press her foot without running the risk of stopping the machine by releasing some clutch; if he moves his knees a hair’s-breadth in her direction it does something to the mechanism; if he looks her way they are into the ditch; if she attempts to kiss him his goggles prevent; his sighs are lost in the muffler and hers in the exhaust; nothing but dire disaster will bring an automobile courtship to a happy termination; as long as the machine goes love-making is quite out of the question.

“Dobbin, dear old secretive Dobbin, what difference does it make to you whether you feel the guiding hand or not?  You know when the courtship begins, the brisk drives about town to all points of interest, to the pond, the poorhouse, and the cemetery; you know how the courtship progresses, the long drives in the country, the idling along untravelled roads and woodland ways, the moonlight nights and misty meadows; you know when your stops to nibble by the wayside will not be noticed, and you alone know when it is time to get the young couple home; you know, alas! when the courtship—­blissful period of loitering for you—­is ended and when the marriage is made, by the tighter rein, the sharper word, and the occasional swish of the whip.  Ah, Dobbin, you and I—­” The Professor was becoming indiscreet.

“What do you know about love-making, Professor?”

“My dear fellow, it is the province of learning to know everything and practise nothing.”

“But Dobbin—­”

“We all have had our Dobbins.”