Well, then, garlands of
shoes, if you please! Baby bootlets of bronze; tiny ankle-ties in
yellow, blue, and scarlet kid; glossy patent-leather pumps shining in the
sun, with festoons of slippers at the corners, flowery slippers in
imitation Berlin wool-work. If you make this picture in your mind's-eye,
just add a window above the awning, and over the fringe of marigolds in
the window-box put the draper's wife dancing a rosy-cheeked baby. Alas!
my words are only black and white, I fear, and this picture needs a
palette drenched in primary colours.
Along the street, a short distance, is the old watchmaker's. Set in the
hedge at the gate is a glass case with _Multum in Parvo_ painted on the
woodwork. Within, a little stand of trinkets revolves slowly; as slowly,
I imagine, as the current of business in that quiet street. The house
stands a trifle back and is covered thickly with ivy, while over the
entrance-door of the shop is a great round clock set in a green frame of
clustering vine. The hands pointed to one when I passed the watchmaker's
garden with its thicket of fragrant lavender and its murmuring bees; so I
went in to the sign of the "Strong i' the Arm" for some cold luncheon,
determining to patronise "The Running Footman" at the very next
opportunity. Neither of these inns is starred by Baedeker, and this fact
adds the last touch of enchantment to the picture.
The landlady at the "Strong i' the Arm" stabbed me in the heart by
telling me that there were no apartments to let in the village, and that
she had no private sitting-room in the inn; but she speedily healed the
wound by saying that I might be accommodated at one of the farm-houses in
the vicinity.
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