s. A drunken bricklayer's a king to it."

"But why are you telling me this now?"

"It's important you should know at once."

"But, Mr. Benson--"

"That isn't all. If you don't mind my speaking about myself a bit,
there's a few things I'd like to tell you. I can't go on deceiving you.
My name's not Benson. WHY I told you Benson, I DON'T know. Except that
I'm a kind of fool. Well--I wanted somehow to seem more than I was. My
name's Hoopdriver."

"Yes?"

"And that about South Africa--and that lion."

"Well?"

"Lies."

"Lies!"

"And the discovery of diamonds on the ostrich farm. Lies too. And all the
reminiscences of the giraffes--lies too. I never rode on no giraffes.
I'd be afraid."

He looked at her with a kind of sullen satisfaction. He had eased his
conscience, anyhow. She regarded him in infinite perplexity. This was a
new side altogether to the man. "But WHY," she began.

"Why did I tell you such things? _I_ don't know. Silly sort of chap, I
expect. I suppose I wanted to impress you. But somehow, now, I want you
to know the truth."

Silence. Breakfast untouched. "I thought I'd tell you," said Mr.
Hoopdriver. "I suppose it's snobbishness and all that kind of thing, as
much as anything. I lay awake pretty near all last night thinking about
myself; thinking what a got-up imitation of a man I was, and all that."

"And you haven't any diamond shares, and you are not going into
Parliament, and you're not--"

"All Lies," said Hoopdriver, in a sepulchral voice. "Lies from beginning
to end. 'Ow I came to tell 'em I DON'T know."

She stared at him blankly.

"I never set eyes on Africa in my life," said Mr. Hoopdriver, completing
the confession. Then he pulled his right hand from his pocket, and with
the nonchalance of one to whom the bitterness of death is passed, began
to drink his coffee.

"It's a little surprising," began Jessie, vaguely.

"Think it over," said Mr. Hoopdriver. "I'm sorry from the bottom of my
heart."

And then breakfast proceeded in silence. Jessie ate very little, and
seemed lost in thought. Mr. Hoopdriver was so overcome by contrition and
anxiety that he consumed an extraordinarily large breakfast out of pure
nervousness, and ate his scrambled eggs for the most part with the
spoon that belonged properly to the marmalade. His eyes were gloomily
downcast. She glanced at him through her eyelashes. Once or twice she
struggled with laughter, once or twice she seemed to be indignant.