the spirited sort, of course, but still--Wonder if she had any
money? Wonder what the second-class fare from Havant to London
is? Of course he would have to pay that--it was the regular
thing, he being a gentleman. Then should he take her home? He
began to rough in a moving sketch of the return. The stepmother,
repentant of her indescribable cruelties, would be present,--even
these rich people have their troubles,--probably an uncle or two.
The footman would announce, Mr.--(bother that name!) and Miss
Milton. Then two women weeping together, and a knightly figure in
the background dressed in a handsome Norfolk jacket, still
conspicuously new. He would conceal his feeling until the very
end. Then, leaving, he would pause in the doorway in such an
attitude as Mr. George Alexander might assume, and say, slowly
and dwindlingly: "Be kind to her--BE kind to her," and so depart,
heartbroken to the meanest intelligence. But that was a matter
for the future. He would have to begin discussing the return
soon. There was no traffic along the road, and he came up beside
her (he had fallen behind in his musing). She began to talk. "Mr.
Denison," she began, and then, doubtfully, "That is your name?
I'm very stupid--"

"It is," said Mr. Hoopdriver. (Denison, was it? Denison, Denison,
Denison. What was she saying?)

"I wonder how far you are willing to help me?" Confoundedly hard
to answer a question like that on the spur of the moment, without
steering wildly. "You may rely--" said Mr. Hoopdriver, recovering
from a violent wabble. "I can assure you-- I want to help you
very much. Don't consider me at all. Leastways, consider me
entirely at your service." (Nuisance not to be able to say this