even than Mr. Hoopdriver thought. But now she was not waving her

handkerchief, she was not even looking at him. She was wheeling her

machine slowly along the road towards him, and admiring the pretty

wooded hills towards Weybridge. She might have been unaware of his

existence for all the recognition he got.

For a moment horrible doubts troubled Mr. Hoopdriver. Had that

handkerchief been a dream? Besides which he was deliquescent and

scarlet, and felt so. It must be her coquetry--the handkerchief was

indisputable. Should he ride up to her and get off, or get off and ride

up to her? It was as well she didn't look, because he would certainly

capsize if he lifted his cap. Perhaps that was her consideration. Even

as he hesitated he was upon her. She must have heard his breathing. He

gripped the brake. Steady! His right leg waved in the air, and he came

down heavily and staggering, but erect. She turned her eyes upon him

with admirable surprise.

Mr. Hoopdriver tried to smile pleasantly, hold up his machine, raise his

cap, and bow gracefully. Indeed, he felt that he did as much. He was a

man singularly devoid of the minutiae of self-consciousness, and he was

quite unaware of a tail of damp hair lying across his forehead, and just

clearing his eyes, and of the general disorder of his coiffure. There

was an interrogative pause.

What can I have the pleasure--" began Mr. Haopdriver, insinuatingly.

I mean" (remembering his emancipation and abruptly assuming his most

The Wheels of Chance