She caught at her breath. She did not care to ask why. But compared with Bechamel!—“We take each other on trust,” she said. “Do you want to know—how things are with me?” “That man,” she went on, after the assent of his listening silence, “promised to help and protect me. I was unhappy at home—never mind why. A stepmother—Idle, unoccupied, hindered, cramped, that is enough, perhaps. Then he came into my life, and talked to me of art and literature, and set my brain on fire. I wanted to come out into the world, to be a human being—not a thing in a hutch. And he—” “I know,” said Hoopdriver. “And now here I am—” “I will do anything,” said Hoopdriver. She thought. “You cannot imagine my stepmother. No! I could not describe her—” “I am entirely at your service. I will help you with all my power.” “I have lost an Illusion and found a Knight-errant.” She spoke of Bechamel as the Illusion. Mr. Hoopdriver felt flattered. But he had no adequate answer. “I’m thinking,” he said, full of a rapture of protective responsibility, “what we had best be doing. You are tired, you know. And we can’t wander all night—after the day we’ve had.” “That was Chichester we were near?” she asked. “If,” he meditated, with a tremble in his voice, “you would make _me_ your brother, _Miss Beaumont_.” “Yes?” “We could stop there together—” She took a minute to answer. “I am going to light these lamps,” said Hoopdriver. He bent down to his own, and struck a match on his shoe. She looked at his face in its light, grave and intent. How could she ever have thought him common or absurd? “But you must tell me your name—brother,” she said, “Er—Carrington,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, after a momentary pause. Who would be Hoopdriver on a night like this? “But the Christian name?” “Christian name? _My_ Christian name. Well—Chris.” He snapped his lamp and stood up. “If you will hold my machine, I will light yours,” he said. She came round obediently and took his machine, and for a moment they stood face to face. “My name, brother Chris,” she said, “is Jessie.” He looked into her eyes, and his excitement seemed arrested. “_Jessie_,” he repeated slowly. The mute emotion of his face affected her strangely. She had to speak. “It’s not such a very wonderful name, is it?” she said, with a laugh to break the intensity. He opened his mouth and shut it again, and, with a sudden wincing of his features, abruptly turned and bent down to open the lantern in front of her machine. She looked down at him, almost kneeling in front of her, with an unreasonable approbation in her eyes. It was, as I have indicated, the hour and season of the full moon. XXV.