that, she is--what one does not always find in the devouter
members of her sex--young and beautiful. I think I understood you
to say you are a bachelor?"

They were approaching the last turning at which it was still
possible to avoid the fatal road, and Gissing's attention was
divided.

"Yes, after a fashion," he replied. "Bishop, do you know that
road down into the valley? The view is really superb--Yes, that
road--Oh, no, I am a bachelor--"

It was too late. The chauffeur, unconscious of this private
crisis, was spinning along the homeward way. With a tender
emotion Gissing saw the spires of the poplar trees, the hemlocks
down beyond the pond, the fringe of woods that concealed the
house until you were quite upon it--

The car swerved suddenly and the driver only saved it by a quick
and canny manoeuvre from going down the bank. He came to a stop,
and almost from underneath the rear wheels appeared a scuffling
dusty group of youngsters who had been playing in the road. There
they were-- Bunks, Groups, and Yelpers (inordinately grown!) and
two of the Spaniels. Their clothes were deplorable, their faces
grimed, their legs covered with burrs, their whole demeanour was
ragamuffin and wild: yet Gissing felt a pang of pride to see his
godchildren's keen, independent bearing contracted with the
rowdier, disreputable look of the young Spaniels. Quickly he
averted his head to escape recognition. But the urchins were all
gaping at the Bishop's shovel hat.