Love and Mr. Lewisham | Page 5

in height than he. Do you observe her half-open lips? said
Mother Nature in a noiseless aside to Mr. Lewisham--a thing he
afterwards recalled. In her eyes was a touch of apprehension.
"I say," he said, with protest still uppermost, "you oughtn't to do this."
"Do what?"
"This. Impositions. For my boys."
She raised her eyebrows, then knitted them momentarily, and looked at
him. "Are you Mr. Lewisham?" she asked with an affectation of entire
ignorance and discovery.
She knew him perfectly well, which was one reason why she was
writing the imposition, but pretending not to know gave her something
to say.
Mr. Lewisham nodded.
"Of all people! Then"--frankly--"you have just found me out."
"I am afraid I have," said Lewisham. "I am afraid I have found you
out."
They looked at one another for the next move. She decided to plead in
extenuation.
"Teddy Frobisher is my cousin. I know it's very wrong, but he seemed
to have such a lot to do and to be in such trouble. And I had nothing to
do. In fact, it was I who offered...."
She stopped and looked at him. She seemed to consider her remark
complete.
That meeting of the eyes had an oddly disconcerting quality. He tried to
keep to the business of the imposition. "You ought not to have done
that," he said, encountering her steadfastly.
She looked down and then into his face again. "No," she said. "I
suppose I ought not to. I'm very sorry."
Her looking down and up again produced another unreasonable effect.
It seemed to Lewisham that they were discussing something quite other
than the topic of their conversation; a persuasion patently absurd and
only to be accounted for by the general disorder of his faculties. He
made a serious attempt to keep his footing of reproof.
"I should have detected the writing, you know."
"Of course you would. It was very wrong of me to persuade him. But I

did--I assure you. He seemed in such trouble. And I thought--"
She made another break, and there was a faint deepening of colour in
her cheeks. Suddenly, stupidly, his own adolescent cheeks began to
glow. It became necessary to banish that sense of a duplicate topic
forthwith.
"I can assure you," he said, now very earnestly, "I never give a
punishment, never, unless it is merited. I make that a rule. I--er--always
make that a rule. I am very careful indeed."
"I am really sorry," she interrupted with frank contrition. "It was silly
of me."
Lewisham felt unaccountably sorry she should have to apologise, and
he spoke at once with the idea of checking the reddening of his face. "I
don't think _that_," he said with a sort of belated alacrity. "Really, it
was kind of you, you know--very kind of you indeed. And I know
that--I can quite understand that--er--your kindness...."
"Ran away with me. And now poor little Teddy will get into worse
trouble for letting me...."
"Oh no," said Mr. Lewisham, perceiving an opportunity and trying not
to smile his appreciation of what he was saying. "I had no business to
read this as I picked it up--absolutely no business. Consequently...."
"You won't take any notice of it? Really!"
"Certainly not," said Mr. Lewisham.
Her face lit with a smile, and Mr. Lewisham's relaxed in sympathy. "It
is nothing--it's the proper thing for me to do, you know."
"But so many people won't do it. Schoolmasters are not usually
so--chivalrous."
He was chivalrous! The phrase acted like a spur. He obeyed a foolish
impulse.
"If you like--" he said.
"What?"
"He needn't do this. The Impot., I mean. I'll let him off."
"Really?"
"I can."
"It's awfully kind of you."
"I don't mind," he said. "It's nothing much. If you really think ..."
He was full of self-applause for this scandalous sacrifice of justice.
"It's awfully kind of you," she said.

"It's nothing, really," he explained, "nothing."
"Most people wouldn't--"
"I know."
Pause.
"It's all right," he said. "Really."
He would have given worlds for something more to say, something
witty and original, but nothing came.
The pause lengthened. She glanced over her shoulder down the vacant
avenue. This interview--this momentous series of things unsaid was
coming to an end! She looked at him hesitatingly and smiled again. She
held out her hand. No doubt that was the proper thing to do. He took it,
searching a void, tumultuous mind in vain.
"It's awfully kind of you," she said again as she did so.
"It don't matter a bit," said Mr. Lewisham, and sought vainly for some
other saying, some doorway remark into new topics. Her hand was cool
and soft and firm, the most delightful thing to grasp, and this
observation ousted all other things. He held it for a