“There, I think you are wise. The morning is cool, the drive to Richmond will be lovely; my lord, I must say good-bye to you.” “_A ce soir_, Dick.” The dapper little artist left Lionel and was soon out of sight under the trees of Hyde Park, while Lionel jumped into his Roman chariot, took up the reins and dashed out of the courtyard. He drove down Park Lane, turned sharply the corner of Hyde Park, taking the straight road to Hammersmith. Although charioteering was not a violent exercise like rowing, cricket or football, still it was exhilarating, and needed a firmness of posture, a suppleness in all movements which had given to Lord Somerville’s figure a grace formerly hampered by stiff collar, waistcoat, and top hat. This new fashion of driving was improving the physical appearance of the British male; for, the present charioteer was no more to be compared to the man who had jumped in and out of a hansom, than a mythological centaur could be contrasted with a rustic crossing a ferry on his cattle. The sluggish, indolent exponent of Masherdom fell down the very first time he took the reins into his hands; the rigid, unyielding representative of soldiery stiffened a little more, and managed to keep his balance, though the effect was ugly and the result, lumbago. But, little by little, the indolent straightened himself, the unbending relaxed his rigidity; and in a fortnight London could boast of a good average of chariot drivers, whom even Avilius Teres would not have disowned.