the habitual servile from him. Here was moonlight rising
over the memory of a red sunset, dark shadows and glowing orange lamps,
beauty somewhere mysteriously rapt away from him, tangible wrong in a
brown suit and an unpleasant face, flouting him. Mr. Hoopdriver for
the time, was in the world of Romance and Knight-errantry, divinely
forgetful of his social position or hers; forgetting, too, for the time
any of the wretched timidities that had tied him long since behind the
counter in his proper place. He was angry and adventurous. It was all
about him, this vivid drama he had fallen into, and it was eluding him.
He was far too grimly in earnest to pick up that lost thread and make a
play of it now. The man was living. He did not pose when he alighted at
the coffee tavern even, nor when he made his hasty meal.

As Bechamel crossed from the Vicuna towards the esplanade, Hoopdriver,
disappointed and exasperated, came hurrying round the corner from the
Temperance Hotel. At the sight of Bechamel, his heart jumped, and the
tension of his angry suspense exploded into, rather than gave place to,
an excited activity of mind. They were at the Vicuna, and she was there
now alone. It was the occasion he sought. But he would give Chance no
chance against him. He went back round the corner, sat down on the seat,
and watched Bechamel recede into the dimness up the esplanade, before he
got up and walked into the hotel entrance. "A lady cyclist in grey," he
asked for, and followed boldly on the waiter's heels. The door of the
dining-room was opening before he felt a qualm. And then suddenly he was
nearly minded to turn and run for it, and his features seemed to him to
be convulsed.

She turned with a start, and looked at him with something between terror
and hope in her eyes.

"Can I--have a few words--with you, alone?" said Mr. Hoopdriver,
controlling his breath with difficulty. She hesitated, and then motioned
the waiter to withdraw.

Mr. Hoopdriver watched the door shut. He had intended to step out into
the middle of the room, fold his arms and say, "You are in trouble. I
am a Friend. Trust me." Instead of which he stood panting and then spoke
with sudden familiarity, hastily, guiltily: "Look here. I don't know
what the juice is up, but I think there's something wrong. Excuse my
intruding--if it isn't so. I'll do anything you like to help you out of
the scrape--if you're in one. That's my meaning, I believe. What can I
do? I wou