d, and
it flew up between front wheel and mud-guard. He twisted round towards
her. Had the machine a devil?

At that supreme moment it came across him that he would have done wiser
to dismount. He gave a frantic 'whoop' and tried to get round, then, as
he seemed falling over, he pulled the handles straight again and to the
left by an instinctive motion, and shot behind her hind wheel, missing
her by a hair's breadth. The pavement kerb awaited him. He tried to
recover, and found himself jumped up on the pavement and riding squarely
at a neat wooden paling. He struck this with a terrific impact and shot
forward off his saddle into a clumsy entanglement. Then he began to
tumble over sideways, and completed the entire figure in a sitting
position on the gravel, with his feet between the fork and the stay of
the machine. The concussion on the gravel shook his entire being. He
remained in that position, wishing that he had broken his neck, wishing
even more heartily that he had never been born. The glory of life had
departed. Bloomin' Dook, indeed! These unwomanly women!

There was a soft whirr, the click of a brake, two footfalls, and the
Young Lady in Grey stood holding her machine. She had turned round and
come back to him. The warm sunlight now was in her face. "Are you hurt?"
she said. She had a pretty, clear, girlish voice. She was really very
young--quite a girl, in fact. And rode so well! It was a bitter draught.

Mr. Hoopdriver stood up at once. "Not a bit," he said, a little
ruefully. He became painfully aware that large patches of gravel
scarcely improve the appearance of a Norfolk suit. "I'm very sorry
indeed--"

"It's my fault," she said, interrupting and so saving him on the very
verge of calling her 'Miss.' (He knew 'Miss' was wrong, but it was
deep-seated habit with him.) "I tried to pass you on the wrong side."
Her face and eyes seemed all alive. "It's my place to be sorry."

"But it was my steering--"

"I ought to have seen you were a Novice"--with a touch of superiority.
"But you rode so straight coming along there!"

She really was--dashed pretty. Mr. Hoopdriver's feelings passed the
nadir. When he spoke again there was the faintest flavour of the
aristocratic in his voice.

"It's my first ride, as a matter of fact. But that's no excuse for my
ah! blundering--"

"Your finger's bleeding," she said, abruptly.

He saw his knuckle was barked. "I didn't feel it," he said, feeling
manly.

"You don