Clearly there was only one course open to a gentleman under the circumstances. “In that case,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, “if you don’t mind trusting yourself to a stranger, we might continue as we are perhaps. For a day or so. Until you heard.” (Suppose thirty shillings a day, that gives four days, say four thirties is hun’ and twenty, six quid,—well, three days, say; four ten.)
“You are very good to me.”
His expression was eloquent.
“Very well, then, and thank you. It’s wonderful—it’s more than I deserve that you—” She dropped the theme abruptly. “What was our bill at Chichester?”
“Eigh?” said Mr. Hoopdriver, feigning a certain stupidity. There was a brief discussion. Secretly he was delighted at her insistence in paying. She carried her point. Their talk came round to their immediate plans for the day. They decided to ride easily, through Havant, and stop, perhaps, at Fareham or Southampton. For the previous day had tried them both. Holding the map extended on his knee, Mr. Hoopdriver’s eye fell by chance on the bicycle at his feet. “That bicycle,” he remarked, quite irrelevantly, “wouldn’t look the same machine if I got a big, double Elarum instead of that little bell.”
“Why?”
“Jest a thought.” A pause.
“Very well, then,—Havant and lunch,” said Jessie, rising.
“I wish, somehow, we could have managed it without stealing that machine,” said Hoopdriver. “Because it IS stealing it, you know, come to think of it.”
“Nonsense. If Mr. Bechamel troubles you—I will tell the whole world—if need be.”