She looked at him doubtfully. He had seen it! She decided that he was not an unredeemed rough taking advantage of a mistake, but an innocent soul meaning well while seeking happiness. "I did wave my handkerchief," she said. "I'm very sorry. I am expecting—a friend, a gentleman,"—she seemed to flush pink for a minute. "He is riding a bicycle and dressed in—in brown; and at a distance, you know—"
"Oh, quite!" said Mr. Hoopdriver, bearing up in manly fashion against his bitter disappointment. "Certainly."
"I'm Awfully sorry, you know. Troubling you to dismount, and all that."
"No trouble. 'Ssure you," said Mr. Hoopdriver, mechanically and bowing over his saddle as if it was a counter. Somehow he could not find it in his heart to tell her that the man was beyond there with a punctured pneumatic. He looked back along the road and tried to think of something else to say. But the gulf in the conversation widened rapidly and hopelessly. "There's nothing further," began Mr. Hoopdriver desperately, recurring to his stock of clichés.
"Nothing, thank you," she said decisively. And immediately, "This is the Ripley road?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Hoopdriver. "Ripley is about two miles from here. According to the milestones."
