himself to be called
the best of a bad lot, may have a self-informed consciousness of his relative
importance, and strut consoled. But for complete enjoyment the outward and the
inward must concur. And that concurrence was happening to Gwendolen.
    Who can deny that bows and arrows are among the prettiest weapons in the
world for feminine forms to play with? They prompt attitudes full of grace and
power, where that fine concentration of energy seen in all marksmanship, is
freed from associations of bloodshed. The time-honoured British resource of
»killing something« is no longer carried on with bow and quiver; bands defending
their passes against an invading nation fight under another sort of shade than a
cloud of arrows; and poisoned darts are harmless survivals either in rhetoric or
in regions comfortably remote. Archery has no ugly smell of brimstone; breaks
nobody's shins, breeds no athletic monsters; its only danger is that of failing,
which for generous blood is enough to mould skilful action. And among the
Brackenshaw archers the prizes were all of the nobler symbolic kind: not
property to be carried off in a parcel, degrading honour into gain; but the gold
arrow and the silver, the gold star and the silver, to be worn for a time in
sign of achievement and then transferred to the next who did excellently. These
signs of pre-eminence had the virtue of wreaths without their inconveniences,
which might have produced a melancholy effect in the heat of the ball-room.
Altogether the Brackenshaw Archery Club was an institution framed with good
taste, so as not to have by necessity any ridiculous incidents.
    And to-day all incalculable elements were in its favour. There was mild
warmth, and no wind to disturb either hair or drapery or the course of the
arrow; all skilful preparation had fair play, and when there was a general march
to extract the arrows, the promenade of joyous young creatures in light speech
and laughter, the graceful movement in common towards a common object, was a
show worth looking at. Here Gwendolen seemed a Calypso among her nymphs. It was
in her attitudes and movements that every one was obliged to admit her
surpassing charm.
    »That girl is like a high-mettled racer,« said Lord Brackenshaw to young
Clintock, one of the invited spectators.
    »First chop! tremendously pretty too,« said the elegant Grecian, who had
been paying her assiduous attention; »I never saw her look better.«
    Perhaps she had never looked so well. Her face was beaming with young
pleasure in which there were no malign rays of discontent; for