“I’m thinking,” he said, full of a rapture of protective responsibility, “what we had best be doing. You are tired, you know. And we can’t wander all night—after the day we’ve had.”
“That was Chichester we were near?” she asked.
“If,” he meditated, with a tremble in his voice, “you would make me your brother, Miss Beaumont.”
“Yes?”
“We could stop there together—”
She took a minute to answer. “I am going to light these lamps,” said Hoopdriver. He bent down to his own, and struck a match on his shoe. She looked at his face in its light, grave and intent. How could she ever have thought him common or absurd?
“But you must tell me your name—brother,” she said,
“Er—Carrington,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, after a momentary pause. Who would be Hoopdriver on a night like this?
“But the Christian name?”
“Christian name? My Christian name. Well—Chris.” He snapped his lamp and stood up. “If you will hold my machine, I will light yours,” he said.