“I wonder how far you are willing to help me?” Confoundedly hard to answer a question like that on the spur of the moment, without steering wildly. “You may rely—” said Mr. Hoopdriver, recovering from a violent wabble. “I can assure you—I want to help you very much. Don’t consider me at all. Leastways, consider me entirely at your service.” (Nuisance not to be able to say this kind of thing right.) “You see, I am so awkwardly situated.” “If I can only help you—you will make me very happy—” There was a pause. Round a bend in the road they came upon a grassy space between hedge and road, set with yarrow and meadowsweet, where a felled tree lay among the green. There she dismounted, and propping her machine against a stone, sat down. “Here, we can talk,” she said. “Yes,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, expectant. She answered after a little while, sitting, elbow on knee, with her chin in her hand, and looking straight in front of her. “I don’t know—I am resolved to Live my Own Life.” “Of course,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Naturally.” “I want to Live, and I want to see what life means. I want to learn. Everyone is hurrying me, everything is hurrying me; I want time to think.” Mr. Hoopdriver was puzzled, but admiring. It was wonderful how clear and ready her words were. But then one might speak well with a throat and lips like that. He knew he was inadequate, but he tried to meet the occasion. “If you let them rush you into anything you might repent of, of course you’d be very silly.” “Don’t _you_ want to learn?” she asked. “I was wondering only this morning,” he began, and stopped. She was too intent upon her own thoughts to notice this insufficiency. “I find myself in life, and it terrifies me. I seem to be like a little speck, whirling on a wheel, suddenly caught up. ‘What am I here for?’ I ask. Simply to be here at a time—I asked it a week ago, I asked it yesterday, and I ask it to-day. And little things happen and the days pass. My stepmother takes me shopping, people come to tea, there is a new play to pass the time, or a concert, or a novel. The wheels of the world go on turning, turning. It is horrible. I want to do a miracle like Joshua and stop the whirl until I have fought it out. At home—It’s impossible.” Mr. Hoopdriver stroked his moustache. “It _is_ so,” he said in a meditative tone. “Things _will_ go on,” he said. The faint breath of summer stirred the trees, and a bunch of dandelion puff lifted among the meadowsweet and struck and broke into a dozen separate threads against his knee. They flew on apart, and sank, as the breeze fell, among the grass: some to germinate, some to perish. His eye followed them until they had vanished. “I can’t go back to Surbiton,” said the Young Lady in Grey. “_Eigh?_” said Mr. Hoopdriver, catching at his moustache. This was an unexpected development.