" She spoke of
Bechamel as the Illusion.
Mr. Hoopdriver felt flattered. But he had no adequate answer.
"I'm thinking," he said, full of a rapture of protective
responsibility, " what we had best be doing. You are tired, you
know. And we can't wander all night--after the day we've had."
"That was Chichester we were near?" she asked.
"If," he meditated, with a tremble in his voice, "you would make
ME your brother, MISS BEAUMONT."
"Yes?"
"We could stop there together--"
She took a minute to answer. "I am going to light these lamps,"
said Hoopdriver. He bent down to his own, and struck a match on
his shoe. She looked at his face in its light, grave and intent.
How could she ever have thought him common or absurd?
"But you must tell me your name--brother," she said,
"Er--Carrington," said Mr. Hoopdriver, after a momentary pause.
Who would be Hoopdriver on a night like this?
"But the Christian name?"
"Christian name? MY Christian name. Well--Chris." He snapped his
lamp and stood up. "If you will hold my machine, I will light
yours," he said.
She came round obediently and took his machine, and for a moment
they stood face to face. "My name, brother Chris," she said, "is
Jessie."
He looked into her eyes, and his excitement seemed arrested.
"JESSIE," he repeated slowly. The mute emotion of his face
affected her strangely. She had to speak. "It's not such a very
wonderful name, is it?" she said, with a laugh to break the
intensity.
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