"Jest a turning or two more, if you don't mind," said Hoopdriver.

"Jest a mile or so. I have to think of you, you know. I should
feel more easy. If we was locked up, you know--Not that I should
mind on my own account--"

They rode with a streaky, grey sea coming and going on their left
hand. Every mile they put between themselves and Chichester Mr.
Hoopdriver felt a little less conscience-stricken, and a little
more of the gallant desperado. Here he was riding on a splendid
machine with a Slap-up girl beside him. What would they think of
it in the Emporium if any of them were to see him? He imagined in
detail the astonishment of Miss Isaacs and of Miss Howe. "Why!
It's Mr. Hoopdriver," Miss Isaacs would say. "Never!"
emphatically from Miss Howe. Then he played with Briggs, and then
tried the 'G.V.' in a shay. "Fancy introducing 'em to her--My
sister pro tem." He was her brother Chris--Chris what?--Confound
it! Harringon, Hartington--something like that. Have to keep off
that topic until he could remember. Wish he'd told her the truth
now--almost. He glanced at her. She was riding with her eyes
straight ahead of her. Thinking. A little perplexed, perhaps, she
seemed. He noticed how well she rode and that she rode with her
lips closed--a thing he could never manage.

Mr. Hoopdriver's mind came round to the future. What was she
going to do? What were they both going to do? His thoughts took a
graver colour. He had rescued her. This was fine, manly rescue
work he was engaged upon. She ought to go home, in spite of that
stepmother. He must insist gravely but firmly upon that. She was