A long stretch up hill tired them long before Stoney Cross was reached, and they dismounted and sat under the shade of a little oak tree. Near the crest the road looped on itself, so that, looking back, it sloped below them up to the right and then came towards them. About them grew a rich heather with stunted oaks on the edge of a deep ditch along the roadside, and this road was sandy; below the steepness of the hill, however, it was grey and barred with shadows, for there the trees clustered thick and tall. Mr. Hoopdriver fumbled clumsily with his cigarettes.
“There’s a thing I got to tell you,” he said, trying to be perfectly calm.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’d like to jest discuss your plans a bit, y’know.”
“I’m very unsettled,” said Jessie.
“You are thinking of writing books?”
“Or doing journalism, or teaching, or something like that.”
“And keeping yourself independent of your stepmother?”
“Yes.”
“How long’d it take now, to get anything of that sort to do?”
“I don’t know at all. I believe there are a great many women journalists and sanitary inspectors, and black-and-white artists. But I suppose it takes time. Women, you know, edit most papers nowadays, George Egerton says. I ought, I suppose, to communicate with a literary agent.”
“Of course,” said Hoopdriver, “it’s very suitable work. Not being heavy like the drapery.”
“There’s heavy brain labour, you must remember.”
“That wouldn’t hurt you,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, turning a compliment.
“It’s like this,” he said, ending a pause. “It’s a juiced nuisance alluding to these matters, but—we got very little more money.”
He perceived that Jessie started, though he did not look at her. “I was counting, of course, on your friend’s writing and your being able to take some action today.” “Take some action” was a phrase he had learnt at his last “swop.”
“Money,” said Jessie. “I didn’t think of money.”
“Hullo! Here’s a tandem bicycle,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, abruptly, and pointing with his cigarette.
She looked, and saw two little figures emerging from among the trees at the foot of the slope. The riders were bowed sternly over their work and made a gallant but unsuccessful attempt to take the rise. The machine was evidently too highly geared for hill climbing, and presently the rearmost rider rose on his saddle and hopped off, leaving his companion to any fate he found proper. The foremost rider was a man unused to such machines and apparently undecided how to dismount. He wabbled a few yards up the hill with a long tail of machine wabbling behind him. Finally, he made an attempt to jump off as one does off a single bicycle, hit his boot against the backbone, and collapsed heavily, falling on his shoulder.
She stood up. “Dear me!” she said. “I hope he isn’t hurt.”
The second rider went to the assistance of the fallen man.
Hoopdriver stood up, too. The lank, shaky machine was lifted up and wheeled out of the way, and then the fallen rider, being assisted, got up slowly and stood rubbing his arm. No serious injury seemed to be done to the man, and the couple presently turned their attention to the machine by the roadside. They were not in cycling clothes Hoopdriver observed. One wore the grotesque raiment for which the Cockney discovery of the game of golf seems indirectly blamable. Even at this distance the flopping flatness of his cap, the bright brown leather at the top of his calves, and the chequering of his stockings were perceptible. The other, the rear rider, was a slender little man in grey.
“Amatoors,” said Mr. Hoopdriver.
Jessie stood staring, and a veil of thought dropped over her eyes. She no longer regarded the two men who were now tinkering at the machine down below there.
“How much have you?” she said.
He thrust his right hand into his pocket and produced six coins, counted them with his left index finger, and held them out to her. “Thirteen four half,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Every penny.”
“I have half a sovereign,” she said. “Our bill wherever we stop—” The hiatus was more eloquent than many words.
“I never thought of money coming in to stop us like this,” said Jessie.
“It’s a juiced nuisance.”
“Money,” said Jessie. “Is it possible—Surely! Conventionality! May only people of means—Live their own Lives? I never thought …”
Pause.
“Here’s some more cyclists coming,” said Mr. Hoopdriver.
The two men were both busy with their bicycle still, but now from among the trees emerged the massive bulk of a “Marlborough Club” tandem, ridden by a slender woman in grey and a burly man in a Norfolk jacket. Following close upon this came a lank black figure in a piebald straw hat, riding a tricycle of antiquated pattern with two large wheels in front. The man in grey remained bowed over the bicycle, with his stomach resting on the saddle, but his companion stood up and addressed some remark to the tricycle riders. Then it seemed as if he pointed up hill to where Mr. Hoopdriver and his companion stood side by side. A
