He looked like a man of sense, and not like a man of sentiment,
that day as he drove through the Doncaster street on his way to
the sport he loves beyond any other sport. He sat with three
other gentlemen on the sidewise seats of the trap, preceded by
outriders, which formed the simple turnout of the greatest prince
in the world. He was at the end on the right, and he showed fully
as stout as he was, in the gray suit he wore, while he lifted his
gray top-hat now and then, bowing casually, almost absently, to
the spectators fringing, not too deeply, the sidewalks. He was
very, very stout, even after many seasons of Marienbad, and after
the sufferings he had lately undergone, and he was quite like the
pictures and effigies of him, down to those on the postage-
stamps. He has a handsome face, still bearded in the midst of a
mostly clean-shaving nation, and with the white hairs prevalent
on the cheeks and temples; his head is bald atop, though hardly
from the uneasiness of wearing a crown.
It was difficult to realize him for what he was, and in the
unmilitary keeping of a few policemen, he was not of the high
histrionic presence that those German majesties were.
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