Hoopdriver only thought of the brake when the fingerpost was passed.

Then to have recovered the point of intersection would have meant

dismounting. For as yet there was no road wide enough for Mr. Hoopdriver

to turn in. So he went on his way--or to be precise, he did exactly the

opposite thing. The road to the right was the Portsmouth road, and this

he was on went to Haslemere and Midhurst. By that error it came about

that he once more came upon his fellow travellers of yesterday, coming

on them suddenly, without the slightest preliminary announcement and

when they least expected it, under the Southwestern Railway arch. "It's

horrible," said a girlish voice; "it's brutal--cowardly--" And stopped.

His expression, as he shot out from the archway at them, may have been

something between a grin of recognition and a scowl of annoyance at

himself for the unintentional intrusion. But disconcerted as he was, he

was yet able to appreciate something of the peculiarity of their mutual

attitudes. The bicycles were lying by the roadside, and the two riders

stood face to face. The other man in brown's attitude, as it flashed

upon Hoopdriver, was a deliberate pose; he twirled his moustache and

smiled faintly, and he was conscientiously looking amused. And the girl

stood rigid, her arms straight by her side, her handkerchief clenched in

her hand, and her face was flushed, with the faintest touch of red upon

her eyelids. She seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver's sense to be indignant. But

that was the impression of a second. A mask of surprised recognition

fell across this revelation of emotion as she turned her head towards

him, and the pose of the other man in brown vanished too in a momentary

astonishment. And then he had passed them, and was riding on towards

The Wheels of Chance