At the top, from the cage, he looked down over the clustering red roofs of the town and the tower of the church, and then going to the southern side sat down and lit a Red Herring cigarette, and stared away south over the old bramble-bearing, fern-beset ruin, at the waves of blue upland that rose, one behind another, across the Weald, to the lazy altitudes of Hindhead and Butser. His pale grey eyes were full of complacency and pleasurable anticipation. Tomorrow he would go riding across that wide valley. He did not notice any one else had come up the Keep after him until he heard a soft voice behind him saying: “Well, _Miss Beaumont_, here’s the view.” Something in the accent pointed to a jest in the name. “It’s a dear old town, brother George,” answered another voice that sounded familiar enough, and turning his head, Mr. Hoopdriver saw the other man in brown and the Young Lady in Grey, with their backs towards him. She turned her smiling profile towards Hoopdriver. “Only, you know, brothers don’t call their sisters—” She glanced over her shoulder and saw Hoopdriver. “Damn!” said the other man in brown, quite audibly, starting as he followed her glance. Mr. Hoopdriver, with a fine air of indifference, resumed the Weald. “Beautiful old town, isn’t it?” said the other man in brown, after a quite perceptible pause. “Isn’t it?” said the Young Lady in Grey. Another pause began. “Can’t get alone anywhere,” said the other man in brown, looking round. Then Mr. Hoopdriver perceived clearly that he was in the way, and decided to retreat. It was just his luck of course that he should stumble at the head of the steps and vanish with indignity. This was the third time that he’d seen _him_, and the fourth time _her_. And of course he was too big a fat-head to raise his cap to her! He thought of that at the foot of the Keep. Apparently they aimed at the South Coast just as he did. He’d get up betimes the next day and hurry off to avoid her—them, that is. It never occurred to Mr. Hoopdriver that Miss Beaumont and her brother might do exactly the same thing, and that evening, at least, the peculiarity of a brother calling his sister “Miss Beaumont” did not recur to him. He was much too preoccupied with an analysis of his own share of these encounters. He found it hard to be altogether satisfied about the figure he had cut, revise his memories as he would.