loose on his head and his breath a mere remnant.

The Young Lady in Grey was also riding a bicycle. She was dressed in a

beautiful bluish-gray, and the sun behind her drew her outline in gold

and left the rest in shadow. Hoopdriver was dimly aware that she was

young, rather slender, dark, and with a bright colour and bright eyes.

Strange doubts possessed him as to the nature of her nether costume.

He had heard of such things of course. French, perhaps. Her handles

glittered; a jet of sunlight splashed off her bell blindingly. She was

approaching the high road along an affluent from the villas of Surbiton.

fee roads converged slantingly. She was travelling at about the same

pace as Mr. Hoopdriver. The appearances pointed to a meeting at the fork

of the roads.

Hoopdriver was seized with a horrible conflict of doubts. By contrast

with her he rode disgracefully. Had he not better get off at once

and pretend something was wrong with his treadle? Yet even the end of

getting off was an uncertainty. That last occasion on Putney Heath! On

the other hand, what would happen if he kept on? To go very slow

seemed the abnegation of his manhood. To crawl after a mere schoolgirl!

Besides, she was not riding very fast. On the other hand, to thrust

himself in front of her, consuming the road in his tendril-like advance,

seemed an incivility--greed. He would leave her such a very little.

His business training made him prone to bow and step aside. If only one

could take one's hands off the handles, one might pass with a silent

elevation of the hat, of course. But even that was a little suggestive

The Wheels of Chance