News From Nowhere, Or, an Epoch of Rest, Being Some Chapters From a Utopian Romance

you.  And please laugh; only tell me.”

Well, they did laugh, and I joined them again, for the above-stated reasons.  But at last the pretty woman said coaxingly—

“Well, well, he is rude, poor fellow! but you see I may as well tell you what he is thinking about: he means that you look rather old for your age.  But surely there need be no wonder in that, since you have been travelling; and clearly from all you have been saying, in unsocial countries.  It has often been said, and no doubt truly, that one ages very quickly if one lives amongst unhappy people.  Also they say that southern England is a good place for keeping good looks.”  She blushed and said: “How old am I, do you think?”

“Well,” quoth I, “I have always been told that a woman is as old as she looks, so without offence or flattery, I should say that you were twenty.”

She laughed merrily, and said, “I am well served out for fishing for compliments, since I have to tell you the truth, to wit, that I am forty-two.”

I stared at her, and drew musical laughter from her again; but I might well stare, for there was not a careful line on her face; her skin was as smooth as ivory, her cheeks full and round, her lips as red as the roses she had brought in; her beautiful arms, which she had bared for her work, firm and well-knit from shoulder to wrist.  She blushed a little under my gaze, though it was clear that she had taken me for a man of eighty; so to pass it off I said—

“Well, you see, the old saw is proved right again, and I ought not to have let you tempt me into asking you a rude question.”

She laughed again, and said: “Well, lads, old and young, I must get to my work now.  We shall be rather busy here presently; and I want to clear it off soon, for I began to read a pretty old book yesterday, and I want to get on with it this morning: so good-bye for the present.”

She waved a hand to us, and stepped lightly down the hall, taking (as Scott says) at least part of the sun from our table as she went.

When she was gone, Dick said “Now guest, won’t you ask a question or two of our friend here?  It is only fair that you should have your turn.”

“I shall be very glad to answer them,” said the weaver.

“If I ask you any questions, sir,” said I, “they will not be very severe; but since I hear that you are a weaver, I should like to ask you something about that craft, as I am—or was—interested in it.”

“Oh,” said he, “I shall not be of much use to you there, I’m afraid.  I only do the most mechanical kind of weaving, and am in fact but a poor craftsman, unlike Dick here.  Then besides the weaving, I do a little with machine printing and composing, though I am little use at the finer kinds of printing; and moreover machine printing is beginning to die out, along with the waning of the plague of book-making, so I have had to turn to other things that I have a taste for, and have taken to mathematics; and also I am writing a sort of antiquarian book about the peaceable and private history, so to say, of the end of the nineteenth century,—more for the sake of giving a picture of the country before the fighting began than for anything else.  That was why I asked you those questions about Epping Forest.  You have rather puzzled me, I confess, though your information was so interesting.  But later on, I hope, we may have some more talk together, when our friend Dick isn’t here.  I know he thinks me rather a grinder, and despises me for not being very deft with my hands: that’s the way nowadays.  From what I have read of the nineteenth century literature (and I have read a good deal), it is clear to me that this is a kind of revenge for the stupidity of that day, which despised everybody who could use his hands.  But Dick, old fellow, Ne quid nimis!  Don’t overdo it!”

“Come now,” said Dick, “am I likely to?  Am I not the most tolerant man in the world?  Am I not quite contented so long as you don’t make me learn mathematics, or go into your new science of ?sthetics, and let me do a little practical ?sthetics with my gold and steel, and the blowpipe and the nice little hammer?  But, hillo! here comes another questioner for you, my poor guest.  I say, Bob, you must help me to defend him now.”

“Here, Boffin,” he cried out, after a pause; “here we are, if you must have it!”

I looked over my shoulder, and saw something flash and gleam in the sunlight that lay across the hall; so I turned round, and at my ease saw a splendid figure slowly sauntering over the pavement; a man whose surcoat was embroidered most copiously as well as elegantly, so that the sun flashed back from him as if he had been clad in golden armour.  The man himself was tall, dark-haired, and exceedingly handsome, and though his face was no less kindly in