KIPPS
"Well, partly. But I just been lef'———"
"I'm taking a bit of a holiday," Sid went on. "But the fact is, I have to give myself holidays nowadays. I've set up for myself."
"Not down here?"
"No fear! I'm not a turnip. I've started in Hammersmith, manufacturing." Sid spoke off-hand as though there was no such thing as pride.
"Not drapery?"
"No fear! Engineer. Manufacture bicycles." He clapped his hand to his breast pocket and produced a number of pink handbills. He handed one to Kipps and prevented him reading it by explanations and explanatory dabs of a pointing finger. "That's our make, my make to be exact, The Red Flag, see?—I got a transfer with my name—Pantocrat tyres, eight pounds—yes, there—Clinchers ten, Dunlop's eleven, Ladies' one pound more—that's the lady's. Best machine at a democratic price in London. No guineas and no discounts—honest trade. I build 'em—to order. I've built," he reflected, looking away seaward—"seventeen. Counting orders in 'and. . . .
"Come down to look at the old place a bit," said Sid. "Mother likes it at times."
"Thought you'd all gone away———"
"What! after my father's death? No! My mother's come back, and she's living at Muggett's cottages. The sea air suits 'er. She likes the old place better than Hammersmith. . . and I can afford it. Got an old crony or so here. . . . Gossip. . . have tea. . . . S'pose you ain't married, Kipps?"
Kipps shook his head, "I—" he began.
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