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You should have seen Mr. Hoopdriver promenading the brilliant gardens at
Earl's Court on an early-closing night. His meaning glances! (I dare not
give the meaning.) Such an influence as the eloquence of a revivalist
preacher would suffice to divert the story into absolutely different
channels, make him a white-soured hero, a man still pure, walking
untainted and brave and helpful through miry ways. The appearance of
some daintily gloved frockcoated gentleman with buttonhole and eyeglass
complete, gallantly attendant in the rear of customers, served again
to start visions of a simplicity essentially Cromwell-like, of sturdy
plainness, of a strong, silent man going righteously through the world.
This day there had predominated a fine leisurely person immaculately
clothed, and riding on an unexceptional machine, a mysterious
person--quite unostentatious, but with accidental self-revelation
of something over the common, even a "bloomin' Dook," it might be
incognito, on the tour of the South Coast.
You must not think that there was any TELLING of these stories of this
life-long series by Mr. Hoopdriver. He never dreamt that they were known
to a soul. If it were not for the trouble, I would, I think, go back and
rewrite this section from the beginning, expunging the statements that
Hoopdriver was a poet and a romancer, and saying instead that he was a
playwright and acted his own plays. He was not only the sole performer,
but the entire audience, and the entertainment kept him almost
continuously happy. Yet even that playwright comparison scarcely
expresses all the facts of the case. After all, very many of his dreams
never got acted at all, possibly indeed, most of them, the dreams of
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