And then breakfast proceeded in silence. Jessie ate very little, and seemed lost in thought. Mr. Hoopdriver was so overcome by contrition and anxiety that he consumed an extraordinarily large breakfast out of pure nervousness, and ate his scrambled eggs for the most part with the spoon that belonged properly to the marmalade. His eyes were gloomily downcast. She glanced at him through her eyelashes. Once or twice she struggled with laughter, once or twice she seemed to be indignant. “I don’t know what to think,” she said at last. “I don’t know what to make of you—brother Chris. I thought, do you know? that you were perfectly honest. And somehow—” “Well?” “I think so still.” “Honest—with all those lies!” “I wonder.” “I don’t,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “I’m fair ashamed of myself. But anyhow—I’ve stopped deceiving you.” “I _thought_,” said the Young Lady in Grey, “that story of the lion—” “Lord!” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Don’t remind me of _that_.” “I thought, somehow, I _felt_, that the things you said didn’t ring quite true.” She suddenly broke out in laughter, at the expression of his face. “Of _course_ you are honest,” she said. “How could I ever doubt it? As if _I_ had never pretended! I see it all now.” Abruptly she rose, and extended her hand across the breakfast things. He looked at her doubtfully, and saw the dancing friendliness in her eyes. He scarcely understood at first. He rose, holding the marmalade spoon, and took her proffered hand with abject humility. “Lord,” he broke out, “if you aren’t enough—but there!” “I see it all now.” A brilliant inspiration had suddenly obscured her humour. She sat down suddenly, and he sat down too. “You did it,” she said, “because you wanted to help me. And you thought I was too Conventional to take help from one I might think my social inferior.” “That was partly it,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “How you misunderstood me!” she said. “You don’t mind?” “It was noble of you. But I am sorry,” she said, “you should think me likely to be ashamed of you because you follow a decent trade.” “I didn’t know at first, you see,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. And he submitted meekly to a restoration of his self-respect. He was as useful a citizen as could be,—it was proposed and carried,—and his lying was of the noblest. And so the breakfast concluded much more happily than his brightest expectation, and they rode out of ruddy little Blandford as though no shadow of any sort had come between them. XXXVI. As they were sitting by the roadside among the pine trees half-way up a stretch of hill between Wimborne and Ringwood, however, Mr. Hoopdriver reopened the question of his worldly position. “Ju think,” he began abruptly, removing a meditative cigarette from his mouth, “that a draper’s shopman _is_ a decent citizen?” “Why not?” “When he puts people off with what they don’t quite want, for instance?” “Need he do that?”