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XLI. THE ENVOY
So the story ends, dear Reader. Mr. Hoopdriver, sprawling down there
among the bracken, must sprawl without our prying, I think, or listening
to what chances to his breathing. And of what came of it all, of the six
years and afterwards, this is no place to tell. In truth, there is no
telling it, for the years have still to run. But if you see how a mere
counter-jumper, a cad on castors, and a fool to boot, may come to feel
the little insufficiencies of life, and if he has to any extent won
your sympathies, my end is attained. (If it is not attained, may Heaven
forgive us both!) Nor will we follow this adventurous young lady of ours
back to her home at Surbiton, to her new struggle against Widgery and
Mrs. Milton combined. For, as she will presently hear, that devoted man
has got his reward. For her, also, your sympathies are invited.
The rest of this great holiday, too--five days there are left of it--is
beyond the limits of our design. You see fitfully a slender figure in
a dusty brown suit and heather mixture stockings, and brown shoes not
intended to be cycled in, flitting Londonward through Hampshire and
Berkshire and Surrey, going economically--for excellent reasons. Day by
day he goes on, riding fitfully and for the most part through bye-roads,
but getting a few miles to the north-eastward every day. He is a
narrow-chested person, with a nose hot and tanned at the bridge with
unwonted exposure, and brown, red-knuckled fists. A musing expression
sits upon the face of this rider, you observe. Sometimes he whistles
noiselessly to himself, sometimes he speaks aloud, "a juiced good try,
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