“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 _clichés_. “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 there was no mistake. And I really am awfully sorry—” “Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Don’t mention it.” He hesitated and gripped his handles to mount. “It’s me,” he said, “ought to be sorry.” Should he say it? Was it an impertinence? Anyhow!—“Not being the other gentleman, you know.” He tried a quietly insinuating smile that he knew for a grin even as he smiled it; felt she disapproved—that she despised him, was overcome with shame at her expression, turned his back upon her, and began (very clumsily) to mount. He did so with a horrible swerve, and went pedalling off, riding very badly, as he was only too painfully aware. Nevertheless, thank Heaven for the mounting! He could not see her because it was so dangerous for him to look round, but he could imagine her indignant and pitiless. He felt an unspeakable idiot. One had to be so careful what one said to Young Ladies, and he’d gone and treated her just as though she was only a Larky Girl. It was unforgivable. He always _was_ a fool. You could tell from her manner she didn’t think him a gentleman. One glance, and she seemed to look clear through him and all his presence. What rot it was venturing to speak to a girl like that! With her education she was bound to see through him at once. How nicely she spoke too! nice clear-cut words! She made him feel what slush his own accent was. And that last silly remark. What was it? ‘Not being the other gentleman, you know!’ No point in it. And ‘_gentleman!_’ What _could_ she be thinking of him? But really the Young Lady in Grey had dismissed Hoopdriver from her thoughts almost before he had vanished round the corner. She had thought no ill of him. His manifest awe and admiration of her had given her not an atom of offence. But for her just now there were weightier things to think about, things that would affect all the rest of her life. She continued slowly walking her machine Londonward. Presently she stopped. “Oh! Why _doesn’t_ he come?” she said, and stamped her foot petulantly. Then, as if in answer, coming down the hill among the trees, appeared the other man in brown, dismounted and wheeling his machine. IX. HOW MR. HOOPDRIVER WAS HAUNTED