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 had gone by, and was almost past the end of the five acres. Then he did spring up—and ran.

“Miss Redmayne, can’t I help you? What is it? Have you had a spill?” he said as he overtook her.

“Puncture,” said she laconically.

“You’re very unfortunate. Mayn’t I help you to mend it?”

“I’ll mend it as soon as I get to a shady place.”

“Come into the wilderness. See—here’s the side gate. I’ll fetch some water in a moment.”

She looked at him doubtfully, and then consented. She refused tea, but she stayed and talked till long after the bicycle was mended.

On the following Saturday he walked along the road, and back, and along, and again the place was alive with angry cyclists dealing, each after his fashion, with a punctured tyre. He came upon Miss Redmayne sitting by the ditch mending hers. That was the time when he sat on the roadside and told her all about himself—reserving only those points where his life had touched Camilla’s.