THE WHEELS OF CHANCE
separate threads against his knee. They flew on apart, and sank, as the breeze fell, among the grass: some to germinate, some to perish. His eyes followed them until they had vanished.
"I can't go back to Surbiton," said the Young Lady in Grey.
"Eigh?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, catching at his moustache. This was an unexpected development.
"I want to write, you see," said the Young Lady in Grey, "to write Books and alter things. To do Good. I want to lead a Free Life and Own myself. I can't go back. I want to obtain a position as a Journalist. I have been told— But I know no one to help me at once. No one that I could go to. There is one person— She was a mistress at my school. If I could write to her— But then, how could I get her answer?"
"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.
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