At the same time, the master does not cry 'haro' on the 'bloomer.' It is admirably suited, he maintains, to the average Frenchwoman, who is more inclined to a reasonable plumpness than her English sister. 'The skirt to England,' says he, 'the bloomer to France.' The whole question is one of physique and latitude. The Esquimaux lady would look ungainly and feel uncomfortable if she exchanged her moose furs for the wisp of calico which is patronised by the lady of Senegal; and in the like way the Englishwoman is manifestly ungainly and uncomfortable when she borrows the breeches of the Parisienne. This digression may seem to carry one away from Wimbledon, but I should mention that many of the points enunciated were touched upon by M. Zola for the first time, while we postponed further house-hunting to drive over Wimbledon Common. The historic mill and Caesar's Camp, and the picturesque meres were all viewed before the horses' heads were turned to the town once more. By this time the master had come to the conclusion that however pleasant Wimbledon might be, it was no fit place for him, and that his best course would be to pitch his tent 'far from gay cities and the ways of men.' Within a few hours I had some proof of the wisdom of his decision, and a week had not elapsed before I found that M. Zola's sojourn at Wimbledon had become known to a variety of people. Mr. Genoni, the restaurateur, had been one of the first to identify him; but, as he explained to me, he was no spy or betrayer, and whatever he might think of the Dreyfus business--he was a reader of that anti-Revisionist print the 'Petit Journal'--M. Zola's secret was, he assured me, quite safe in his hands. But, independently of Mr. Genoni, the secret soon became _le secret de Polichinelle_. A French resident in Wimbledon recognised M. Zola as he stood one day by the railway bridge admiring some fair cyclists. Then a gentleman connected with the local Petty Sessions court espied him in my company, and shrewdly guessed his identity. Subsequently a local hairdresser, an Englishman, but one well acquainted with Paris and Parisian matters, 'spotted' him in the Hill Road. Others followed suit, and at last one afternoon a member of the 'Globe' staff called upon me and supplied me with such circumstantial particulars that I could not possibly deny the accuracy of his information. But M. Zola had then left Wimbledon, and thus I was able to fence with my visitor and inform him that, even if the novelist had ever been in the town, he was not there at that time.