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"It does," she said, but not very loudly. "But you had met before?" said Chaffery. "At Whortley," said Lewisham. "I see," said Chaffery. "I was in I was one of those who arranged the exposure," said Lewisham. "And now you have raised the matter, I am bound to say " "I knew," interrupted Chaffery. "But what a shock that was for Lagune!"
There is a lot ..." "I walk to Clapham," she said. "If you care ... to come part of the way ..." She moved awkwardly. Lewisham took his place at her side. They walked side by side for a moment, their manner constrained, having so much to say that they could not find a word to begin upon. "Have you forgotten Whortley?" he asked abruptly. "No." He glanced at her; her face was downcast.
Lewisham, tapping his breast-pocket. "This lane," he said their talk was curiously inconsecutive "some way along this lane, over the hill and down, there is a gate, and that goes I mean, it opens into the path that runs along the river bank. Have you been?" "No," she said. "It's the best walk about Whortley. It brings you out upon Immering Common. You must before you go."
It was to facilitate this marriage that Ethel had been sent to Whortley, so that was counted a mitigated evil. But these were far-off things, remote and unreal down the long, ill-lit vista of the suburban street which swallowed up Ethel nightly. The walk, her warmth and light and motion close to him, her clear little voice, and the touch of her hand; that was reality.
Her handwriting was still round and boyish, even as it had appeared in the Whortley avenue, but her punctuation was confined to the erratic comma and the dash, and there was a disposition to spell the imperfectly legible along the line of least resistance. However, he dismissed that matter with a resolve to read over and correct anything in that way that she might have sent her to do.
Presently he found himself humming a languid tune, and thinking again of the quarrel that he had imagined banished from his mind. What in the name of destiny had it all been about? He had a curious sense that something had got loose, was sliding about in his mind. And as if by way of answer emerged a vision of Whortley a singularly vivid vision.
In that now half-forgotten love affair at Whortley even, he had, in spite of the considerable degree of intimacy attained, said absolutely nothing about his Career. Miss Heydinger declined to disbelieve in the spirits of the dead, and this led to controversy in the laboratory over Tea.
That kind of thing is a common enough experience to girls who go to and from work in London, and she had had perforce to learn many things since her adventurous Whortley days. She looked stiffly in front of her. The man deliberately got in her way so that she had to stop. She lifted eyes of indignant protest. It was Lewisham and his face was white.
He stood hesitating by the lodge, and then turned back up the avenue in order not to be seen to follow her too closely up the West Street. And then, still walking away from her, he remembered that he had not lent her a book as he had planned, nor made any arrangement ever to meet her again. She might leave Whortley anywhen for the amenities of Clapham. He stopped and stood irresolute.
Lewisham escaped through the omission and made his way Horace in pocket to the park gates and so to the avenue of ancient trees that encircles the broad Whortley domain. He dismissed a suspicion of his motive with perfect success. In the avenue for the path is but little frequented one might expect to read undisturbed.
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