Mr. Hoopdriver, instead of sitting down, went up to the table and stood against it, with his finger-tips upon the cloth. They were keeping breakfast a tremendous time. He took up his rolled serviette, looked closely and scrutinisingly at the ring, then put his hand under the fold of the napkin and examined the texture, and put the thing down again. Then he had a vague impulse to finger his hollow wisdom tooth—happily checked. He suddenly discovered he was standing as if the table was a counter, and sat down forthwith. He drummed with his hand on the table. He felt dreadfully hot and self-conscious. “Breakfast is late,” said Jessie, standing up. “Isn’t it?” Conversation was slack. Jessie wanted to know the distance to Ringwood. Then silence fell again. Mr. Hoopdriver, very uncomfortable and studying an easy bearing, looked again at the breakfast things and then idly lifted the corner of the tablecloth on the ends of his fingers, and regarded it. “Fifteen three,” he thought, privately. “Why do you do that?” said Jessie. “_What?_” said Hoopdriver, dropping the tablecloth convulsively. “Look at the cloth like that. I saw you do it yesterday, too.” Mr. Hoopdriver’s face became quite a bright red. He began pulling his moustache nervously. “I know,” he said. “I know. It’s a queer habit, I know. But out there, you know, there’s native servants, you know, and—it’s a queer thing to talk about—but one has to look at things to see, don’t y’know, whether they’re quite clean or not. It’s got to be a habit.” “How odd!” said Jessie. “Isn’t it?” mumbled Hoopdriver. “If I were a Sherlock Holmes,” said Jessie, “I suppose I could have told you were a colonial from little things like that. But anyhow, I guessed it, didn’t I?” “Yes,” said Hoopdriver, in a melancholy tone, “you guessed it.” Why not seize the opportunity for a neat confession, and add, “unhappily in this case you guessed wrong.” Did she suspect? Then, at the psychological moment, the girl bumped the door open with her tray and brought in the coffee and scrambled eggs. “I am rather lucky with my intuitions, sometimes,” said Jessie. Remorse that had been accumulating in his mind for two days surged to the top of his mind. What a shabby liar he was! And, besides, he must sooner or later, inevitably, give himself away. XXXV. Mr. Hoopdriver helped the eggs and then, instead of beginning, sat with his cheek on his hand, watching Jessie pour out the coffee. His ears were a bright red, and his eyes bright. He took his coffee cup clumsily, cleared his throat, suddenly leant back in his chair, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “I’ll do it,” he said aloud. “Do what?” said Jessie, looking up in surprise over the coffee pot. She was just beginning her scrambled egg. “Own up.” “Own what?”