“H’mp,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, very grave.
“I can’t trouble you much more. You have come—you have risked things—”
“That don’t count,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “It’s double pay to let me do it, so to speak.”
“It is good of you to say that. Surbiton is so Conventional. I am resolved to be Unconventional—at any cost. But we are so hampered. If I could only burgeon out of all that hinders me! I want to struggle, to take my place in the world. I want to be my own mistress, to shape my own career. But my stepmother objects so. She does as she likes herself, and is strict with me to ease her conscience. And if I go back now, go back owning myself beaten—” She left the rest to his imagination.
“I see that,” agreed Mr. Hoopdriver. He must help her. Within his skull he was doing some intricate arithmetic with five pounds six and twopence. In some vague way he inferred from all this that Jessie was trying to escape from an undesirable marriage, but was saying these things out of modesty. His circle of ideas was so limited.
“You know, Mr.—I’ve forgotten your name again.”
Mr. Hoopdriver seemed lost in abstraction. “You can’t go back of course, quite like that,” he said thoughtfully. His ears waxed suddenly red and his cheeks flushed.
“But what is your name?”
“Name!” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Why!—Benson, of course.”
“Mr. Benson—yes it’s really very stupid of me. But I can never remember names. I must make a note on my cuff.” She clicked a little silver pencil and wrote the name down. “If I could write to my friend. I believe she would be able to help me to an independent life. I could write to her—or telegraph. Write, I think. I could scarcely explain in a telegram. I know she would help me.”