who put them up, and its Guildhall is a Tudor building, very
pleasant to see, and in the afternoon the shops are busy and the
people going to and fro make the pavements look bright and
prosperous. It was nice to peep in the windows and see the heads
of the men and girls in the drapers' shops, busy as busy, serving
away. The High Street runs down at an angle of seventy degrees to
the horizon (so it seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver, whose feeling for
gradients was unnaturally exalted), and it brought his heart into
his mouth to see a cyclist ride down it, like a fly crawling down
a window pane. The man hadn't even a brake. He visited the castle
early in the evening and paid his twopence to ascend the Keep.

At the top, from the cage, he looked down over the clustering red
roofs of the town and the tower of the church, and then going to
the southern side sat down and lit a Red Herring cigarette, and
stared away south over the old bramble-bearing, fern-beset ruin,
at the waves of blue upland that rose, one behind another, across
the Weald, to the lazy altitudes of Hindhead and Butser. His pale
grey eyes were full of complacency and pleasurable anticipation.
Tomorrow he would go riding across that wide valley.

He did not notice any one else had come up the Keep after him
until he heard a soft voice behind him saying: "Well, MISS
BEAUMONT, here's the view." Something in the accent pointed to a
jest in the name.

"It's a dear old town, brother George," answered another voice
that sounded familiar enough, and turning his head, Mr.
Hoopdriver saw the other man in brown and the Young Lady in Grey,
with their backs towards him. She turned her smiling profile