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XXII.
And now without in the twilight behold Mr. Hoopdriver, his cheeks
hot, his eye bright! His brain is in a tumult. The nervous, obsequious
Hoopdriver, to whom I introduced you some days since, has undergone a
wonderful change. Ever since he lost that 'spoor' in Chichester, he has
been tormented by the most horrible visions of the shameful insults that
may be happening. The strangeness of new surroundings has been working
to strip off the habitual servile from him. Here was moonlight rising
over the memory of a red sunset, dark shadows and glowing orange lamps,
beauty somewhere mysteriously rapt away from him, tangible wrong in a
brown suit and an unpleasant face, flouting him. Mr. Hoopdriver for
the time, was in the world of Romance and Knight-errantry, divinely
forgetful of his social position or hers; forgetting, too, for the time
any of the wretched timidities that had tied him long since behind the
counter in his proper place. He was angry and adventurous. It was all
about him, this vivid drama he had fallen into, and it was eluding him.
He was far too grimly in earnest to pick up that lost thread and make a
play of it now. The man was living. He did not pose when he alighted at
the coffee tavern even, nor when he made his hasty meal.
As Bechamel crossed from the Vicuna towards the esplanade, Hoopdriver,
disappointed and exasperated, came hurrying round the corner from the
Temperance Hotel. At the sight of Bechamel, his heart jumped, and the
tension of his angry suspense exploded into, rather than gave place to,
an excited activity of mind. They were at the Vicuna, and she was there
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