(overlooking a jolt or so), and far away, at the end of it

all,--the sea.
What mattered a fly or so in the dawn of these delights? Perhaps

he had been dashed a minute by the shamefulepisode of the Young
Lady in Grey, and perhaps the memory of it was making itself a

little lair in a corner of his brain from which it could distress
him in the retrospect by suggesting that he looked like a fool;

but for the present that trouble was altogether in abeyance. The
man in drab--evidently a swell--had spoken to him as his equal,

and the knees of his brown suit and the chequered stockings were
ever before his eyes. (Or, rather, you could see the stockings by

carrying the head a little to one side.) And to feel, little by
little, his mastery over this delightful, treacherous machine,

growing and growing! Every half-mile or so his knees reasserted
themselves, and he dismounted and sat awhile by the roadside.

It was at a charming little place between Esher and Cobham, where
a bridge crosses a stream, that Mr. Hoopdriver came across the

other cyclist in brown. It is well to notice the fact here,
although the interview was of the slightest, because it happened

that subsequently Hoopdriver saw a great deal more of this other
man in brown. The other cyclist in brown had a machine of

dazzling newness, and a punctured pneumatic lay across his knees.
He was a man of thirty or more, with a whitish face, an aquiline

nose, a lank, flaxen moustache, and very fair hair, and he
scowled at the job before him. At the sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver

pulled himself together, and rode by with the air of one born to
the wheel. "A splendid morning," said Mr. Hoopdriver, "and a fine

surface."
"The morning and you and the surface be everlastingly damned!"

said the other man in brown as Hoopdriver receded. Hoopdriver
heard the mumble and did not distinguish the words, and he felt a

pleasing sense of having duly asserted the wide sympathy that
binds all cyclists together, of having behaved himself as becomes

one of the brotherhood of the wheel. The other man in brown
watched his receding aspect. "Greasy proletarian," said the other

man in brown, feeling a propheticdislike. "Got a suit of brown,
the very picture of this. One would think his sole aim in life

had been to caricature me. It's Fortune's way with me. Look at
his insteps on the treadles! Why does Heaven make such men?"

And having lit a cigarette, the other man in brown returned to
the business in hand.

Mr. Hoopdriver worked up the hill towards Cobham to a point that
he felt sure was out of sight of the other man in brown, and then

he dismounted and pushed his machine; until the proximity of the
village and a proper pride drove him into the saddle again.

VIII
Beyond Cobham came a delightfulincident, delightful, that is, in

its beginning if a trifle indeterminate in the retrospect. It was
perhaps half-way between Cobham and Ripley. Mr. Hoopdriver

dropped down a little hill, where, unfenced from the road, fine
mossy trees and bracken lay on either side; and looking up he saw

an open country before him, covered with heather and set with
pines, and a yellow road runing across it, and half a mile away

perhaps, a little grey figure by the wayside waving something
white. "Never!" said Mr. Hoopdriver with his hands tightening on

the handles.
He resumed the treadles, staring away before him, jolted over a

stone, wabbled, recovered, and began riding faster at once, with
his eyes ahead. "It can't be," said Hoopdriver.

He rode his straightest, and kept his pedals spinning, albeit a
limp numbness had resumed possession of his legs." It CAN'T be,"

he repeated, feeling every moment more assured that it WAS.
"Lord! I don't know even now," said Mr. Hoopdriver (legs

awhirling), and then, "Blow my legs!"
But he kept on and drew nearer and nearer, breathing hard and

gathering flies like a flypaper. In the valley he was hidden.
Then the road began to rise, and the resistance of the pedals

grew. As he crested the hill he saw her, not a hundred yards away
from him. "It's her!" he said. "It's her--right enough. It's the

suit's done it,"--which was truer even than Mr. Hoopdriver
thought. But now she was not waving her handkerchief, she was not

even looking at him. She was wheeling her machine slowly along
the road towards him, and admiring the pretty wooded hills

towards Weybridge. She might have been unaware of his existence
for all the recognition he got.

For a moment horrible doubts troubled Mr. Hoopdriver. Had that
handkerchief been a dream? Besides which he was deliquescent and

scarlet, and felt so. It must be her coquetry--the handkerchief
was indisputable. Should he ride up to her and get off, or get

off and ride up to her? It was as well she didn't look, because
he would certainly capsize if he lifted his cap. Perhaps that was

her consideration. Even as he hesitated he was upon her. She must
have heard his breathing. He gripped the brake. Steady! His right

leg waved in the air, and he came down heavily and staggering,
but erect. She turned her eyes upon him with admirable surprise.

Mr. Hoopdriver tried to smile pleasantly, hold up his machine,
raise his cap, and bow gracefully. Indeed, he felt that he did as

much. He was a man singularly devoid of the minutiae of
self-consciousness, and he was quite unaware of a tail of damp

hair lying across his forehead, and just clearing his eyes, and
of the general disorder of his coiffure. There was an

interrogative pause.
"What can I have the pleasure--" began Mr. Haopdriver,

insinuatingly. "I mean" (remembering his emancipation and
abruptly assuming his most aristocratic intonation), "can I be of

any assistance to you?"
The Young Lady in Grey bit her lower lip and said very prettily,

"None, thank you." She glanced away from him and made as if she
would proceed.

"Oh!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, taken aback and suddenly crestfallen
again. It was so unexpected. He tried to grasp the situation. Was

she coquetting? Or had he--?
"Excuse me, one minute," he said, as she began to wheel her

machine again.
"Yes?" she said, stopping and staring a little, with the colour

in her cheeks deepening.
"I should not have alighted if I had not--imagined that you--er,

waved something white--" He paused.
She looked at him doubtfully. He HAD seen it! She decided that

he was not an unredeemed rough takingadvantage of a mistake, but
an innocent soul meaning well while seeking happiness. "I DID

wave my handkerchief," she said. "I'm very sorry. I am
expecting--a friend, a gentleman,"--she seemed to flush pink for

a minute. "He is riding a bicycle and dressed in--in brown; and
at a distance, you know--"

"Oh, quite!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, bearing up in manly fashion
against his bitter disappointment. "Certainly."

"I'm awfully sorry, you know. Troubling you to dismount, and all
that."

"No trouble. 'Ssure you," said Mr. Hoopdriver, mechanically and
bowing over his saddle as if it was a counter. Somehow he could

not find it in his heart to tell her that the man was beyond
there with a punctured pneumatic. He looked back along the road

and tried to think of something else to say. But the gulf in the
conversation widened rapidly and hopelessly. "There's nothing

further," began Mr. Hoopdriver desperately, recurring to his
stock of cliches.

"Nothing, thank you," she said decisively. And immediately, "This
IS the Ripley road?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Ripley is about two miles from
here. According to the mile-stones."

"Thank you," she said warmly. "Thank you so much. I felt sure