"What a show! 'East Lynne' by the celebrated London company or 'The Girl at the Cross Roads' preceded by the one act comedy, 'Sarah in the Soup.'" "You should not run the place down--you will spoil John's anticipations." They passed a couple of ragged men, bronzed and unshaven, who stood still while the trap passed. "That's the ideal life," exclaimed Marsh, flicking the pony. "Nothing to do and no desire to do it. They remind me of Davies' lines--he was a tramp too-- _What is this life if full of care We have no time to stand and stare?_ This road's punctuated with these leisured gentlemen--that's another attraction of Loughboro--there's a fine workhouse. The Governor goes to preach there once a month, and always comes away regretting he's not an inmate--it fits in with his idea of the democratic communal life. But he always drinks sherry when he gets home--to kill the taste I suppose." There were now signs of the approaching town. Cottages became more frequent, and then villas, pathetically attempting to keep on good relations with the country by burdening their windows with flower boxes and their square little front gardens with shrubs. Two gasometers loomed up in the distance, long monotonous buildings with tall chimneys suggesting some kind of industry. Then with a turn, they were trotting down the streets of the town itself. They pulled up under the Town Hall clock which projected itself over a market place greatly animated with booths and wandering groups of buyers, gossipers and gapers. Mrs. Marsh disappeared in a chemist's shop, where she exchanged her library books, and presently she emerged laden with three novels, the _English Review_, the _Nineteenth Century_ and _The Tatler_. These were deposited in the trap, whereupon she walked on again and disappeared in a dairy shop. Marsh flicked the pony and the trap jogged on, halting again outside the shop. "This is how we progress on a shopping expedition. I follow the mater all round the market place while everybody comes to the shop doors, stares at me, asks, 'Do you know who that is?' until a wiseacre says, 'That's the parson's son--him what preaches at the workhouse.' Last summer I came down here in shorts and socks and the sight paralysed the market place; they had never seen so much male leg before. I shall bring my 'topper' home next term. It'll have a raging success." For three quarters of an hour they slowly worked round the sides of the market place, while the trap got fuller and fuller and Mrs. Marsh redder and redder. John was busy carrying parcels from the shop to the trap. "Thank heaven a market square has only four sides!" cried Marsh, as John deposited a two gallon jar of cider in the well of the trap.