't at first. Have you any sticking-plaster? If not--" She
balanced her machine against herself. She had a little side pocket,
and she whipped out a small packet of sticking-plaster with a pair of
scissors in a sheath at the side, and cut off a generous portion. He
had a wild impulse to ask her to stick it on for him. Controlled. "Thank
you," he said.

"Machine all right?" she asked, looking past him at the prostrate
vehicle, her hands on her handle-bar. For the first time Hoopdriver did
not feel proud of his machine.

He turned and began to pick up the fallen fabric. He looked over his
shoulder, and she was gone, turned his head over the other shoulder down
the road, and she was riding off. "ORF!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Well,
I'm blowed!--Talk about Slap Up!" (His aristocratic refinement rarely
adorned his speech in his private soliloquies.) His mind was whirling.
One fact was clear. A most delightful and novel human being had flashed
across his horizon and was going out of his life again. The Holiday
madness was in his blood. She looked round!

At that he rushed his machine into the road, and began a hasty ascent.
Unsuccessful. Try again. Confound it, will he NEVER be able to get up
on the thing again? She will be round the corner in a minute. Once more.
Ah! Pedal! Wabble! No! Right this time! He gripped the handles and put
his head down. He would overtake her.

The situation was primordial. The Man beneath prevailed for a moment
over the civilised superstructure, the Draper. He pushed at the pedals
with archaic violence. So Palaeolithic man may have ridden his simple
bicycle of chipped flint in pursuit of his exogamous affinity. She
vanished round the corner. His effort was Titanic. What should he say
when he overtook her? That scarcely disturbed him at first. How fine
she had looked, flushed with the exertion of riding, breathing a little
fast, but elastic and active! Talk about your ladylike, homekeeping
girls with complexions like cold veal! But what should he say to her?
That was a bother. And he could not lift his cap without risking a
repetition of his previous ignominy. She was a real Young Lady. No
mistake about that! None of your blooming shop girls. (There is no
greater contempt in the world than that of shop men for shop girls,
unless it be that of shop girls for shop men.) Phew! This was work. A
certain numbness came and went at his knees.

"May I ask to whom I am indebted?" he panted to himself, tryin