Then the road began to rise, and the resistance of the pedals
grew. As he crested the hill he saw her, not a hundred yards away
from him. "It's her!" he said. "It's her--right enough. It's the
suit's done it,"--which was truer even than Mr. Hoopdriver
thought. But now she was not waving her handkerchief, she was not
even looking at him. She was wheeling her machine slowly along
the road towards him, and admiring the pretty wooded hills
towards Weybridge. She might have been unaware of his existence
for all the recognition he got.

For a moment horrible doubts troubled Mr. Hoopdriver. Had that
handkerchief been a dream? Besides which he was deliquescent and
scarlet, and felt so. It must be her coquetry--the handkerchief
was indisputable. Should he ride up to her and get off, or get
off and ride up to her? It was as well she didn't look, because
he would certainly capsize if he lifted his cap. Perhaps that was
her consideration. Even as he hesitated he was upon her. She must
have heard his breathing. He gripped the brake. Steady! His right
leg waved in the air, and he came down heavily and staggering,
but erect. She turned her eyes upon him with admirable surprise.

Mr. Hoopdriver tried to smile pleasantly, hold up his machine,
raise his cap, and bow gracefully. Indeed, he felt that he did as
much. He was a man singularly devoid of the minutiae of
self-consciousness, and he was quite unaware of a tail of damp
hair lying across his forehead, and just clearing his eyes, and
of the general disorder of his coiffure. There was an
interrogative pause.

"What can I have the pleasure--" began Mr. Haopdriver,