“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 sticking-plaster? 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 aristocratic refinement rarely 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.