SAMUEL BUTLER From Ebury Street to Wilton Crescent Monty walked. It did not cross his mind to hail a taxi—partly because the morning was one of sunshine, partly because it was an article of his creed always to walk when he was alone. It would have seemed to him a waste of opportunity not to have stretched his legs that day, not to have seized an opportunity, however slight, of exercise. Listening to him I, too, saw him walking that May morning, for his walk expressed, clear for all to see, his character and his beliefs. Jaunty it was not. Odious word, redolent of the second-rate, of hats at impossible angles and clothes vulgarly insisting upon their smartness, word of pert familiarity and cocksureness, word native of pier and promenade, of music-hall and palais de danse. And not quite springy either. The ageing acrobat, descending in swift parabola from horizontal bar or trapeze can yet contrive to ape the springiness of his better years as he skips across the circus floor to receive the plaudits of the crowd—an artificial movement, and there was nothing artificial about Monty.
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