are unaccountably prone to
pick up bad habits--and keep them.

It is undeniable that it became convulsed with the most violent emotions
directly the Young Lady in Grey appeared. It began an absolutely
unprecedented Wabble--unprecedented so far as Hoopdriver's experience
went. It "showed off"--the most decadent sinuosity. It left a track like
one of Beardsley's feathers. He suddenly realised, too, that his cap was
loose on his head and his breath a mere remnant.

The Young Lady in Grey was also riding a bicycle. She was dressed in a
beautiful bluish-gray, and the sun behind her drew her outline in gold
and left the rest in shadow. Hoopdriver was dimly aware that she was
young, rather slender, dark, and with a bright colour and bright eyes.
Strange doubts possessed him as to the nature of her nether costume.
He had heard of such things of course. French, perhaps. Her handles
glittered; a jet of sunlight splashed off her bell blindingly. She was
approaching the high road along an affluent from the villas of Surbiton.
fee roads converged slantingly. She was travelling at about the same
pace as Mr. Hoopdriver. The appearances pointed to a meeting at the fork
of the roads.

Hoopdriver was seized with a horrible conflict of doubts. By contrast
with her he rode disgracefully. Had he not better get off at once
and pretend something was wrong with his treadle? Yet even the end of
getting off was an uncertainty. That last occasion on Putney Heath! On
the other hand, what would happen if he kept on? To go very slow
seemed the abnegation of his manhood. To crawl after a mere schoolgirl!
Besides, she was not riding very fast. On the other hand, to thrust
himself in front of her, consuming the road in his tendril-like advance,
seemed an incivility--greed. He would leave her such a very little.
His business training made him prone to bow and step aside. If only one
could take one's hands off the handles, one might pass with a silent
elevation of the hat, of course. But even that was a little suggestive
of a funeral.

Meanwhile the roads converged. She was looking at him. She was flushed,
a little thin, and had very bright eyes. Her red lips fell apart. She
may have been riding hard, but it looked uncommonly like a faint smile.
And the things were--yes!--RATIONALS! Suddenly an impulse to bolt from
the situation became clamorous. Mr. Hoopdriver pedalled convulsively,
intending to pass her. He jerked against some tin thing on the roa