not　mean　to　say　the　things　I　did。　Upon　my　honour；　I　lost　my　head　when　I　spoke　so。　If　you　will；　forgive　me。　I　am　a　man。　I　could　not　help　myself。　Forgive　me；　and　I　promise　you〃
  〃How　can　I　trust　you？〃
  〃Try　me。　I　can　assure　you〃
  She　regarded　him　distrustfully。
  〃At　any　rate；　ride　on　with　me　now。　Surely　we　have　been　in　the　shadow　of　this　horrible　bridge　long　enough。〃
  〃Oh！　let　me　think；〃　she　said；　half　turning　from　him　and　pressing　her　hand　to　her　brow。
  〃THINK！　Look　here；　Jessie。　It　is　ten　o'clock。　Shall　we　call　a　truce　until　one？〃
  She　hesitated；　demanded　a　definition　of　the　truce；　and　at　last　agreed。
  They　mounted；　and　rode　on　in　silence；　through　the　sunlight　and　the　heather。　Both　were　extremely　uncomfortable　and　disappointed。　She　was　pale；　divided　between　fear　and　anger。　She　perceived　she　was　in　a　scrape；　and　tried　in　vain　to　think　of　a　way　of　escape。　Only　one　tangible　thing　would　keep　in　her　mind；　try　as　she　would　to　ignore　it。　That　was　the　quite　irrelevant　fact　that　his　head　was　singularly　like　an　albino　cocoanut。　He；　too；　felt　thwarted。　He　felt　that　this　romantic　business　of　seduction　was；　after　all；　unexpectedly　tame。　But　this　was　only　the　beginning。　At　any　rate；　every　day　she　spent　with　him　was　a　day　gained。　Perhaps　things　looked　worse　than　they　were；　that　was　some　consolation。
  OF　THE　ARTIFICIAL　IN　MAN；　AND　OF　THE　ZEITGEIST
  XVI
  You　have　seen　these　two　young　peopleBechamel；　by…the…bye；　is　the　man's　name；　and　the　girl's　is　Jessie　Miltonfrom　the　outside；　you　have　heard　them　talking；　they　ride　now　side　by　side　（but　not　too　close　together；　and　in　an　uneasy　silence）　towards　Haslemere；　and　this　chapter　will　concern　itself　with　those　curious　little　council　chambers　inside　their　skulls；　where　their　motives　are　in　session　and　their　acts　are　considered　and　passed。
  But　first　a　word　concerning　wigs　and　false　teeth。　Some　jester；　enlarging　upon　the　increase　of　bald　heads　and　purblind　people；　has　deduced　a　wonderful　future　for　the　children　of　men。　Man；　he　said；　was　nowadays　a　hairless　creature　by　forty　or　fifty；　and　for　hair　we　gave　him　a　wig；　shrivelled；　and　we　padded　him；　toothless；　and　lo！　false　teeth　set　in　gold。　Did　he　lose　a　limb；　and　a　fine；　new；　artificial　one　was　at　his　disposal；　get　indigestion；　and　to　hand　was　artificial　digestive　fluid　or　bile　or　pancreatine；　as　the　case　might　be。　Complexions；　too；　were　replaceable；　spectacles　superseded　an　inefficient　eye…lens；　and　imperceptible　false　diaphragms　were　thrust　into　the　failing　ear。　So　he　went　over　our　anatomies；　until；　at　last；　he　had　conjured　up　a　weird　thing　of　shreds　and　patches；　a　simulacrum；　an　artificial　body　of　a　man；　with　but　a　doubtful　germ　of　living　flesh　lurking　somewhere　in　his　recesses。　To　that；　he　held；　we　were　coming。
  How　far　such　odd　substitution　for　the　body　is　possible　need　not　concern　us　now。　But　the　devil；　speaking　by　the　lips　of　Mr。　Rudyard　Kipling；　hath　it　that　in　the　case　of　one　Tomlinson；　the　thing；　so　far　as　the　soul　is　concerned；　has　already　been　accomplished。　Time　was　when　men　had　simple　souls；　desires　as　natural　as　their　eyes；　a　little　reasonable　philanthropy；　a　little　reasonable　philoprogenitiveness；　hunger；　and　a　taste　for　good　living；　a　decent；　personal　vanity；　a　healthy；　satisfying　pugnacity；　and　so　forth。　But　now　we　are　taught　and　disciplined　for　years　and　years；　and　thereafter　we　read　and　read　for　all　the　time　some　strenuous；　nerve…destroying　business　permits。　Pedagogic　hypnotists；　pulpit　and　platform　hypnotists；　book…writing　hypnotists；　newspaper…writing　hypnotists；　are　at　us　all。　This　sugar　you　are　eating；　they　tell　us；　is　ink；　and　forthwith　we　reject　it　with　infinite　disgust。　This　black　draught　of　unrequited　toil　is　True　Happiness；　and　down　it　goes　with　every　symptom　of　pleasure。　This　Ibsen；　they　say；　is　dull　past　believing；　and　we　yawn　and　stretch　beyond　endurance。　Pardon！　they　interrupt；　but　this　Ibsen　is　deep　and　delightful；　and　we　vie　with　one　another　in　an　excess　of　entertainment。　And　when　we　open　the　heads　of　these　two　young　people；　we　find；　not　a　straightforward　motive　on　the　surface　anywhere；　we　find；　indeed；　not　a　soul　so　much　as　an　oversoul；　a　zeitgeist；　a　congestion　of　acquired　ideas；　a　highway's　feast　of　fine；　confused　thinking。　The　girl　is　resolute　to　Live　Her　Own　Life；　a　phrase　you　may　have　heard　before；　and　the　man　has　a　pretty　perverted　ambition　to　be　a　cynical　artistic　person　of　the　very　calmest　description。　He　is　hoping　for　the　awakening　of　Passion　in　her；　among　other　things。　He　knows　Passion　ought　to　awaken；　from　the　text…books　he　has　studied。　He　knows　she　admires　his　genius；　but　he　is　unaware　that　she　does　not　admire　his　head。　He　is　quite　a　distinguished　art　critic　in　London；　and　he　met　her　at　that　celebrated　lady　novelist's；　her　stepmother；　and　here　you　have　them　well　embarked　upon　the　Adventure。　Both　are　in　the　first　stage　of　repentance；　which　consists；　as　you　have　probably　found　for　yourself；　in　setting　your　teeth　hard　and　saying'　〃I　WILL　go　on。〃
  Things；　you　see；　have　jarred　a　little；　and　they　ride　on　their　way　together　with　a　certain　aloofness　of　manner　that　promises　ill　for　the　orthodox　development　of　the　Adventure。　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'sthat　was　the　name　of　the　bright…eyed；　little　old　lady　with　whom　Mr。　Hoopdriver　had　stoppedis　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。　And　coming　to　Midhurst　from　the　north；　the　Angel's　entrance　lies　yawning　to　engulf　your　highly　respectable　cyclists；　while　Mrs。　Wardor's　genial　teapot　is　equally　attractive　to　those　who　weigh　their　means　in　little　scales。　But　to　people　unfamiliar　with　the　Sussex　roadsand　such　were　the　three　persons　of　this　storythe　convergence　did　not　appear　to　be　so　inevitable。
  Bechamel；　tightening　his　chain　in　the　Angel　yard　after　dinner；　was　the　first　to　be　aware　of　their　reunion。　He　saw　Hoopdriver　walk　slowly　across　the　gateway；　his　head　enhaloed　in　cigarette　smoke；　and　pass　out　of　sight　up　the　street。　Incontinently　a　mass　of　cloudy　uneasiness；　that　had　been　partly　dispelled　during　the　day；　reappeared　and　concentrated　rapidly　into　definite　suspicion。　He　put　his　screw　hammer　into　his　pocket　and　walked　through　the　archway　into　the　street；　to　settle　the　business　forthwith；　for　he　prided　himself　on　his　decision。　Hoopdriver　was　merely　promenading；　and　they　met　face　to　face。
  At　the　sight　of　his　adversary；　something　between　disgust　and　laughter　seized　Mr。　Hoopdriver　and　for　a　moment　destroyed　his　animosity。　〃'Ere　we　are　again！〃　he　said；　laughing　insincerely　in　a　sudden　outbreak　at　the　perversity　of　chance。
  The　other　man　in　brown　stopped　short　in　Mr。　Hoopdriver's　way；　staring。　Then　his　face　assumed　an　expression　of　dangerous　civility。　〃Is　it　any　information　to　you；〃　he　said；　with　immense　politeness；　〃when　I　remark　that　you　are　following　us？〃
  Mr。　Hoopdriver；　for　some　occult　reason；　resisted　his　characteristic　impulse　to　apologise。　He　wanted　to　annoy。the　other　man　in　brown；　and　a　sentence　that　had　come　into　his　head　in　a　previous　rehearsal　cropped　up　appropriately。　〃Since　when；〃　said　Mr。　Hoopdriver；　catching　his　breath；　yet　bringing　the　question　out　valiantly；　nevertheless；〃since　when　'ave　you　purchased　the　county　of　Sussex？〃
  〃May　I　point　out；〃　said　the　other　man　in　brown；　〃that　I　object　we　object　not　only　to　your　proximity　to　us。　To　be　frankyou　appear　to　be　following　uswith　an　object。〃
  〃You　can　always；〃　said　Mr。　Hoopdriver；　〃turn　round　if　you　don't　like　it；　and　go　back　the　way　you　came。〃
  〃Oh…o！〃　said　the　other　man　in　brown。　〃THAT'S　it！　I　thought　as　much。〃
  〃Did　you？〃　said　Mr。　Hoopdriver；　quite　at　sea；　but　rising　pluckily　to　the　unknown　occasion。　What　was　the　man　driving　at？
  〃I　see；〃　said　the　other　man。　〃I　see。　I　half　suspected〃　His　manner　change