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jumped up on the pavement and riding squarely at a neat wooden



paling. He struck this with a terrificimpact and shot forward

off his saddle into a clumsy entanglement. Then he began to



tumble over sideways, and completed the entire figure in a

sitting position on the gravel, with his feet between the fork



and the stay of the machine. The concussion on the gravel shook

his entire being. He remained in that position, wishing that he



had broken his neck, wishing even more heartily that he had never

been born. The glory of life had departed. Bloomin' Dook, indeed!



These unwomanly women!

There was a soft whirr, the click of a brake, two footfalls, and



the Young Lady in Grey stood holding her machine. She had turned

round and come back to him. The warm sunlight now was in her



face. "Are you hurt?" she said. She had a pretty, clear, girlish

voice. She was really very young--quite a girl, in fact. And rode



so well! It was a bitter draught.

Mr. Hoopdriver stood up at once. "Not a bit," he said, a little



ruefully. He became painfully aware that large patches of gravel

scarcely improve the appearance of a Norfolk suit. "I'm very



sorry indeed--"

"It's my fault," she said, interrupting and so saving him on the



very verge of calling her 'Miss.' (He knew 'Miss' was wrong, but

it was deep-seated habit with him.) "I tried to pass you on the



wrong side." Her face and eyes seemed all alive. "It's my place

to be sorry."



"But it was my steering--"

"I ought to have seen you were a Novice"--with a touch of



superiority. "But you rode so straight coming along there!"

She really was--dashed pretty. Mr. Hoopdriver's feelings passed



the nadir. When he spoke again there was the faintest flavour of

the aristocratic in his voice.



"It's my first ride, as a matter of fact. But that's no excuse

for my ah! blundering--"



"Your finger's bleeding," she said, abruptly.

He saw his knuckle was barked. "I didn't feel it," he said,



feeling manly.

"You don't at first. Have you any stickingplaster? If not--" She



balanced her machine against herself. She had a little side

pocket, and she whipped out a small packet of sticking-plaster



with a pair of scissors in a sheath at the side, and cut off a

generous portion. He had a wild impulse to ask her to stick it on



for him. Controlled. "Thank you," he said.

"Machine all right?" she asked, looking past him at the prostrate



vehicle, her hands on her handle-bar. For the first time

Hoopdriver did not feel proud of his machine.



He turned and began to pick up the fallen fabric. He looked over

his shoulder, and she was gone, turned his head over the other



shoulder down the road, and she was riding off. "ORF!" said Mr.

Hoopdriver. "Well, I'm blowed!--Talk about Slap Up!" (His



aristocraticrefinementrarely adorned his speech in his private

soliloquies.) His mind was whirling. One fact was clear. A most



delightful and novel human being had flashed across his horizon

and was going out of his life again. The Holiday madness was in



his blood. She looked round!

At that he rushed his machine into the road, and began a hasty



ascent. Unsuccessful. Try again. Confound it, will he NEVER be

able to get up on the thing again? She will be round the corner



in a minute. Once more. Ah! Pedal! Wabble! No! Right this time!

He gripped the handles and put his head down. He would overtake



her.

The situation was primordial. The Man beneath prevailed for a



moment over the civilised superstructure, the Draper. He pushed

at the pedals with archaic violence. So Palaeolithic man may have



ridden his simple bicycle of chipped flint in pursuit of his

exogamous affinity. She vanished round the corner. His effort was






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