the wheels of chance-第4节

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V

Now　you　must　understand　that　Mr。　Hoopdriver　was　not　one　of　your　fast　young　men。　If　he　had　been　King　Lemuel；　he　could　not　have　profited　more　by　his　mother's　instructions。　He　regarded　the　feminine　sex　as　something　to　bow　to　and　smirk　at　from　a　safe　distance。　Years　of　the　intimate　remoteness　of　a　counter　leave　their　mark　upon　a　man。　It　was　an　adventure　for　him　to　take　one　of　the　Young　Ladies　of　the　establishment　to　church　on　a　Sunday。　Few　modern　young　men　could　have　merited　less　the　epithet　〃Dorg。〃　But　I　have　thought　at　times　that　his　machine　may　have　had　something　of　the　blade　in　its　metal。　Decidedly　it　was　a　machine　with　a　past。　Mr。　Hoopdriver　had　bought　it　second…hand　from　Hare's　in　Putney；　and　Hare　said　it　had　had　several　owners。　Second…hand　was　scarcely　the　word　for　it；　and　Elare　was　mildly　puzzled　that　he　should　be　selling　such　an　antiquity。　He　said　it　was　perfectly　sound；　if　a　little　old…fashioned；　but　he　was　absolutely　silent　about　its　moral　character。　It　may　even　have　begun　its　career　with　a　poet；　say；　in　his　glorious　youth。　It　may　have　been　the　bicycle　of　a　Really　Bad　Man。　No　one　who　has　ever　ridden　a　cycle　of　any　kind　but　will　witness　that　the　things　are　unaccountably　prone　to　pick　up　bad　habitsand　keep　them。

It　is　undeniable　that　it　became　convulsed　with　the　most　violent　emotions　directly　the　Young　Lady　in　Grey　appeared。　It　began　an　absolutely　unprecedented　Wabbleunprecedented　so　far　as　Hoopdriver's　experience　went。　It　〃showed　off〃the　most　decadent　sinuosity。　It　left　a　track　like　one　of　Beardsley's　feathers。　He　suddenly　realised；　too；　that　his　cap　was　loose　on　his　head　and　his　breath　a　mere　remnant。

The　Young　Lady　in　Grey　was　also　riding　a　bicycle。　She　was　dressed　in　a　beautiful　bluish…gray；　and　the　sun　behind　her　drew　her　outline　in　gold　and　left　the　rest　in　shadow。　Hoopdriver　was　dimly　aware　that　she　was　young；　rather　slender；　dark；　and　with　a　bright　colour　and　bright　eyes。　Strange　doubts　possessed　him　as　to　the　nature　of　her　nether　costume。　He　had　heard　of　such　things　of　course。　French；　perhaps。　Her　handles　glittered；　a　jet　of　sunlight　splashed　off　her　bell　blindingly。　She　was　approaching　the　high　road　along　an　affluent　from　the　villas　of　Surbiton。　fee　roads　converged　slantingly。　She　was　travelling　at　about　the　same　pace　as　Mr。　Hoopdriver。　The　appearances　pointed　to　a　meeting　at　the　fork　of　the　roads。

Hoopdriver　was　seized　with　a　horrible　conflict　of　doubts。　By　contrast　with　her　he　rode　disgracefully。　Had　he　not　better　get　off　at　once　and　pretend　something　was　wrong　with　his　treadle　？　Yet　even　the　end　of　getting　off　was　an　uncertainty。　That　last　occasion　on　Putney　Heath！　On　the　other　hand；　what　would　happen　if　he　kept　on？　To　go　very　slow　seemed　the　abnegation　of　his　manhood。　To　crawl　after　a　mere　schoolgirl！　Besides；　she　was　not　riding　very　fast。　On　the　other　hand；　to　thrust　himself　in　front　of　her；　consuming　the　road　in　his　tendril…like　advance；　seemed　an　incivilitygreed。　He　would　leave　her　such　a　very　little。　His　business　training　made　him　prone　to　bow　and　step　aside。　If　only　one　could　take　one's　hands　off　the　handles；　one　might　pass　with　a　silent　elevation　of　the　hat；　of　course。　But　even　that　was　a　little　suggestive　of　a　funeral。

Meanwhile　the　roads　converged。　She　was　looking　at　him。　She　was　flushed；　a　little　thin；　and　had　very　bright　eyes。　Her　red　lips　fell　apart。　She　may　have　been　riding　hard；　but　it　looked　uncommonly　like　a　faint　smile。　And　the　things　wereyes！　RATIONALS！　Suddenly　an　impulse　to　bolt　from　the　situation　became　clamorous。　Mr。　Hoopdriver　pedalled　convulsively；　intending　to　pass　her。　He　jerked　against　some　tin　thing　on　the　road；　and　it　flew　up　between　front　wheel　and　mud…guard。　He　twisted　round　towards　her。　Had　the　machine　a　devil？

At　that　supreme　moment　it　came　across　him　that　he　would　have　done　wiser　to　dismount。　He　gave　a　frantic　'whoop'　and　tried　to　get　round；　then；　as　he　seemed　falling　over；　he　pulled　the　handles　straight　again　and　to　the　left　by　an　instinctive　motion；　and　shot　behind　her　hind　wheel；　missing　her　by　a　hair's　breadth。　The　pavement　kerb　awaited　him。　He　tried　to　recover；　and　found　himself　jumped　up　on　the　pavement　and　riding　squarely　at　a　neat　wooden　paling。　He　struck　this　with　a　terrific　impact　and　shot　forward　off　his　saddle　into　a　clumsy　entanglement。　Then　he　began　to　tumble　over　sideways；　and　completed　the　entire　figure　in　a　sitting　position　on　the　gravel；　with　his　feet　between　the　fork　and　the　stay　of　the　machine。　The　concussion　on　the　gravel　shook　his　entire　being。　He　remained　in　that　position；　wishing　that　he　had　broken　his　neck；　wishing　even　more　heartily　that　he　had　never　been　born。　The　glory　of　life　had　departed。　Bloomin'　Dook；　indeed！　These　unwomanly　women！

There　was　a　soft　whirr；　the　click　of　a　brake；　two　footfalls；　and　the　Young　Lady　in　Grey　stood　holding　her　machine。　She　had　turned　round　and　come　back　to　him。　The　warm　sunlight　now　was　in　her　face。　〃Are　you　hurt？〃　she　said。　She　had　a　pretty；　clear；　girlish　voice。　She　was　really　very　youngquite　a　girl；　in　fact。　And　rode　so　well！　It　was　a　bitter　draught。

Mr。　Hoopdriver　stood　up　at　once。　〃Not　a　bit；〃　he　said；　a　little　ruefully。　He　became　painfully　aware　that　large　patches　of　gravel　scarcely　improve　the　appearance　of　a　Norfolk　suit。　〃I'm　very　sorry　indeed〃

〃It's　my　fault；〃　she　said；　interrupting　and　so　saving　him　on　the　very　verge　of　calling　her　'Miss。'　（He　knew　'Miss'　was　wrong；　but　it　was　deep…seated　habit　with　him。）　〃I　tried　to　pass　you　on　the　wrong　side。〃　Her　face　and　eyes　seemed　all　alive。　〃It's　my　place　to　be　sorry。〃

〃But　it　was　my　steering〃

〃I　ought　to　have　seen　you　were　a　Novice〃with　a　touch　of　superiority。　〃But　you　rode　so　straight　coming　along　there！〃

She　really　wasdashed　pretty。　Mr。　Hoopdriver's　feelings　passed　the　nadir。　When　he　spoke　again　there　was　the　faintest　flavour　of　the　aristocratic　in　his　voice。

〃It's　my　first　ride；　as　a　matter　of　fact。　But　that's　no　excuse　for　my　ah！　blundering〃

〃Your　finger's　bleeding；〃　she　said；　abruptly。

He　saw　his　knuckle　was　barked。　〃I　didn't　feel　it；〃　he　said；　feeling　manly。

〃You　don't　at　first。　Have　you　any　stickingplaster？　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；　trying　it　over。　That　might　do。　Lucky　he　had　a　card　case！　A　hundred　a　shillingwhile　you　wait。　He　was　getting　winded。　The　road　was　certainly　a　bit　uphill。　He　turned　the　corner　and　saw　a　long　stretch　of　road；　and　a　grey　dress　vanishing。　He　set　his　teeth。　Had　he　gained　on　her　at　all？　〃Monkey　on　a　gridiron！〃　yelped　a　small　boy。　Hoopdriver　redoubled　his　efforts。　His　breath　became　audible；　his　steering　unsteady；　his　pedalling　positively　ferocious。　A　drop　of　perspiration　ran　into　his　eye；　irritant　as　acid。　The　road　really　was　uphill　beyond　dispute。　All　his　physiology　began　to　cry　out　at　him。　A　last　tremendous　effort　brought　him　to　the　corner　and　showed　yet　another　extent　of　shady　roadway；　empty　save　for　a　baker's　van。　His　front　wheel　suddenly　shrieked　aloud。