He perceives he was
too precipitate. But he feels his honour is involved, and
meditates the development of a new attack. And the girl? She is
unawakened. Her motives are bookish, written by a haphazard
syndicate of authors, novelists, and biographers, on her white
inexperience. An artificial oversoul she is, that may presently
break down and reveal a human being beneath it. She is still in
that schoolgirl phase when a talkative old man is more
interesting than a tongue-tied young one, and when to be an
eminent mathematician, say, or to edit a daily paper, seems as
fine an ambition as any girl need aspire to. Bechaniel was to
have helped her to attain that in the most expeditious manner,
and here he is beside her, talking enigmatical phrases about
passion, looking at her with the oddest expression, and once, and
that was his gravest offence, offering to kiss her. At any rate
he has apologised. She still scarcely realises, you see, the
scrape she has got into.
THE ENCOUNTER AT MIDHURST
XVII
We left Mr. Hoopdriver at the door of the little tea, toy, and
tobacco shop. You must not think that a strain is put on
coincidence when I tell you that next door to Mrs. Wardor's--that
was the name of the bright-eyed, little old lady with whom Mr.
Hoopdriver had stopped--is the Angel Hotel, and in the Angel
Hotel, on the night that Mr. Hoopdriver reached Midhurst, were
'Mr.' and 'Miss' Beaumont, our Bechamel and Jessie Milton.
Indeed, it was a highly probable thing; for if one goes through
Guildford, the choice of southward roads is limited; you may go
by Petersfield to Portsmouth, or by Midhurst to Chichester, in
addition to which highways there is nothing for it but minor
roadways to Petworth or Pulborough, and cross-cuts Brightonward.
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