They rode on to Cosham and stopped for a simple but rather expensive lunch.
Afterward, Jessie went out and mailed the letter she had written to her old school friend.
Then the green slopes of Portsdown Hill caught their attention. They left their bicycles in the village and climbed up to the quiet red-brick fort at the top.
From there they could see Portsmouth and the towns surrounding it, the crowded harbor, the Solent, and the Isle of Wight fading into the blue haze.
Somehow, during their stay at the inn, Jessie had changed back into an ordinary skirted dress.
Hoopdriver stretched out comfortably on the grass, smoking a cigarette and looking down at the towns below.
For the first time in a while, his worries seemed far away.
Instead, he began wondering what impression he was making on Jessie.
He looked at his suit more favorably than before and mentally reviewed everything he had done during the past day.
For a moment he felt rather proud of himself.
Then he remembered how extraordinary Jessie seemed, and his confidence disappeared again.
Jessie had been quietly watching him for the past hour.
She avoided looking directly at him because he always seemed to be watching her.
Her immediate troubles had eased a little, and now her curiosity about this strange, overly respectful man in brown was beginning to grow.
She had also remembered their first meeting.
She simply could not figure him out.
Jessie’s knowledge of the real world was extremely limited. Almost everything she knew had come from books.
That did not mean she was foolish. In fact, she was intelligent. She simply had very little experience with ordinary people.
She had already tested him with a few questions.
He knew almost no French beyond “s’il vous plaît,” which he seemed to think was a clever little joke whenever he used it.
His English was strange, but it was not quite the sort of speech her books had taught her to associate with people from the lower classes.
His manners were generally good, although he was rather too respectful and somewhat old-fashioned.
Once he had even called her “Madam.”
He seemed to have money and plenty of free time, yet he knew almost nothing about recent concerts, plays, or books.
What did he actually do with his time?
He was certainly chivalrous.
He also seemed remarkably innocent.
The change in their clothes had made her feel as though she were meeting an entirely different sort of man.
What on earth was he?
“Mr. Benson,” she said, breaking the silence.
Hoopdriver rolled over and rested his chin on his hand.
“At your service.”
“Do you paint? Are you an artist?”
“Well…”
He paused carefully.
“I wouldn’t exactly call myself an artist. I paint a little. I sketch too, you know. Just little things.”
He picked a blade of grass and began chewing it.
Then, encouraged by his own imagination, he added, “Sometimes for papers and things like that.”
“I see.”
Jessie studied him thoughtfully.
Artists were a strange and varied group, she knew. Great artists were often eccentric.
Hoopdriver avoided her eyes and continued chewing the grass.
“I don’t do very much, you know.”
“Is it your profession?”
“Oh, no.”
He immediately tried to retreat.
“I don’t do it regularly. Every now and then I get an idea and put it down. I’m not really a professional artist.”
“Then you don’t have an ordinary profession?”
Hoopdriver looked into her eyes.
She seemed completely sincere.
For a moment he considered pretending to be a detective again.
“It’s rather complicated,” he said, buying himself time. “I have a sort of profession. There are reasons why I don’t talk much about it.”
“I beg your pardon. I’m questioning you too much.”
“Not at all.”
He smiled nervously.
“I don’t mind telling you. I just… well, I leave it to your imagination.”
Should he tell her he was a barrister?
That sounded respectable enough.
But what if she knew something about the legal profession?
“I think I can guess what you are,” she said.
“Well, go ahead.”
“You come from one of the colonies.”
Hoopdriver’s eyebrows shot upward.
“Really? How did you discover that?”
He had actually been born in a London suburb.
“I guessed.”
He grabbed another blade of grass and tried to look astonished.
“You were educated somewhere overseas.”
“Very good,” said Hoopdriver.
He rolled over toward her.
“You’re practically clairvoyant.”
She smiled.
“Which colony?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You must guess.”
“South Africa,” she said. “I strongly suspect South Africa.”
“South Africa is a rather large place.”
“But I’m right?”
“You’re getting warm,” said Hoopdriver.
His imagination was already racing ahead.
“South Africa?”
He nodded reassuringly.
“Yes.”
“What made me think of it was that novel by Olive Schreiner, The Story of an African Farm. Gregory Rose reminds me of you.”
“I’ve never read it,” Hoopdriver admitted.
“I must read it. What is Gregory Rose like?”
“You should read the book.”
She looked toward the distant landscape.
“South Africa must be fascinating. So many different peoples living together, with a new civilization growing beside an older, rougher world.”
She turned back to him.
“Were you anywhere near Khama?”
“He was a long way from where we lived.”
Hoopdriver’s story was growing rapidly.
“We had a small ostrich farm near Johannesburg. Only a few hundred birds.”
“Was it on the Karoo?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded confidently.
“Some of the land was freehold, fortunately. We did very well there in the old days.”
He paused.
“But there aren’t any ostriches there now.”
“What happened to them?”
“We sold them when we sold the farm.”
He reached for another cigarette.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
“That ostrich farm was when I was quite young.”
“Were there Black people and Boers living around you?”
“Lots,” said Hoopdriver.
He struck a match against his shoe.
He was beginning to realize that his little lie had become a serious responsibility.
“How interesting!” Jessie said.
“I’ve never been outside England except for Paris, Mentone, and Switzerland.”
Hoopdriver took a puff.
“You get tired of traveling after a while.”
“You must tell me more about your farm.”
Her eyes lit up.
“Whenever I read about places like that, my imagination comes alive. I can picture all those tall ostriches being driven across the land by Black herdsmen.”
She paused.
“What do ostriches eat?”
“Well…”
Hoopdriver thought quickly.
“They eat different things. They have their preferences, you know. Fruit, naturally. Various kinds of feed. You have to know what you’re doing.”
“Did you ever see a lion?”
“They weren’t especially common where we lived.”
He tried to sound casual.
“But yes, I’ve seen them once or twice.”
“You actually saw lions?”
Jessie looked fascinated.
“Weren’t you frightened?”
Hoopdriver was beginning to regret ever mentioning South Africa.
He smoked and stared lazily toward the Solent while desperately inventing the next part of his story.
“I didn’t really have time to be frightened,” he said.
“It happened very quickly.”
“Go on.”
“I was crossing one of the inner paddocks where we kept the ostriches.”
“Did you eat ostrich meat?”
Hoopdriver blinked.
“Eat them?”
He quickly recovered.
“Of course. Quite often. They’re very good when properly prepared.”
He cleared his throat.
“Anyway, I was crossing the paddock one night. The moon was shining, and suddenly I saw something standing there, staring at me.”
By now Hoopdriver was sweating.
His imagination was running out of steam.
“Fortunately, I had my father’s gun with me.”
He took another puff.
“I was frightened, I can tell you.”
Jessie listened intently.
“I aimed at what I thought was its head…”
He paused dramatically.
“And fired.”
“What happened?”
“It went down.”
“Dead?”
“Completely dead.”
He nodded solemnly.
“It was one of the luckiest shots I ever made. And I wasn’t much more than nine years old.”
Jessie stared at him.
“I would have screamed and run away.”
“There are some things you can’t run away from,” Hoopdriver said.
“If I’d run, I might have been killed.”
Jessie’s opinion of him had clearly risen.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who killed a lion before.”
Hoopdriver quickly pulled out his watch.
“I say, don’t you think we should get going?”
His face was red and his ears were burning.
Jessie assumed he was embarrassed by the praise.
He stood and offered her his hand.
Hoopdriver now had a lion added to his already growing collection of lies.
They walked back down into Cosham, collected their bicycles, and continued along the northern shore of the harbor.
But Hoopdriver was no longer enjoying himself.
The lie about the lion weighed heavily on him.
Why had he said it?
Fortunately, Jessie did not ask for any more stories about South Africa.
Instead, she returned to her favorite subject: living one’s own life.
She talked about how customs and social expectations could become chains around people’s lives.
Her words made Hoopdriver think.
By the time they reached Porchester, he was still troubled by the lie he had told.
Near the castle, he stopped several times to catch small crabs in the shallow pools along the shore.
Later, at Fareham, they stopped for another tea.
Then, as the sun began to set, they left the town and continued their journey.
Hoopdriver had no idea yet what the evening would bring.