At that he rushed his machine into the road, and began a hasty ascent.

Unsuccessful. Try again. Confound it, will he NEVER be able to get up

on the thing again? She will be round the corner in a minute. Once more.

Ah! Pedal! Wabble! No! Right this time! He gripped the handles and put

his head down. He would overtake her.

The situation was primordial. The Man beneath prevailed for a moment

over the civilised superstructure, the Draper. He pushed at the pedals

with archaic violence. So Palaeolithic man may have ridden his simple

bicycle of chipped flint in pursuit of his exogamous affinity. She

vanished round the corner. His effort was Titanic. What should he say

when he overtook her? That scarcely disturbed him at first. How fine

she had looked, flushed with the exertion of riding, breathing a little

fast, but elastic and active! Talk about your ladylike, homekeeping

girls with complexions like cold veal! But what should he say to her?

That was a bother. And he could not lift his cap without risking a

repetition of his previous ignominy. She was a real Young Lady. No

mistake about that! None of your blooming shop girls. (There is no

greater contempt in the world than that of shop men for shop girls,

unless it be that of shop girls for shop men.) Phew! This was work. A

certain numbness came and went at his knees.

"May I ask to whom I am indebted?" he panted to himself, trying it over.

That might do. Lucky he had a card case! A hundred a shilling--while

you wait. He was getting winded. The road was certainly a bit uphill.

The Wheels of Chance