Love and Mr. Lewisham | Page 8

touch of emotion. With all the achromatic clearness, the
unromantic colourlessness of the early morning....
Yes. He had it now quite distinctly. There had been no overnight
reading. He was in Love.
The proposition jarred with some vague thing in his mind. He stood
staring for a space, and then began looking about absent-mindedly for
his collar-stud. He paused in front of his Schema, regarding it.

CHAPTER IV
.
RAISED EYEBROWS.

"Work must be done anyhow," said Mr. Lewisham.
But never had the extraordinary advantages of open-air study presented
themselves so vividly. Before breakfast he took half an hour of open-air
reading along the allotments lane near the Frobishers' house, after
breakfast and before school he went through the avenue with a book,
and returned from school to his lodgings circuitously through the
avenue, and so back to the avenue for thirty minutes or so before
afternoon school. When Mr. Lewisham was not looking over the top of
his book during these periods of open-air study, then commonly he was
glancing over his shoulder. And at last who should he see but--!
He saw her out of the corner of his eye, and he turned away at once,
pretending not to have seen her. His whole being was suddenly
irradiated with emotion. The hands holding his book gripped it very
tightly. He did not glance back again, but walked slowly and
steadfastly, reading an ode that he could not have translated to save his
life, and listening acutely for her approach. And after an interminable
time, as it seemed, came a faint footfall and the swish of skirts behind
him.
He felt as though his head was directed forward by a clutch of iron.
"Mr. Lewisham," she said close to him, and he turned with a quality of
movement that was almost convulsive. He raised his cap clumsily.
He took her extended hand by an afterthought, and held it until she
withdrew it. "I am so glad to have met you," she said.
"So am I," said Lewisham simply.
They stood facing one another for an expressive moment, and then by a
movement she indicated her intention to walk along the avenue with
him. "I wanted so much," she said, looking down at her feet, "to thank
you for letting Teddy off, you know. That is why I wanted to see you."
Lewisham took his first step beside her. "And it's odd, isn't it," she said,
looking up into his face, "that I should meet you here in just the same
place. I believe ... Yes. The very same place we met before."
Mr. Lewisham was tongue-tied.
"Do you often come here?" she said.
"Well," he considered--and his voice was most unreasonably hoarse
when he spoke--"no. No.... That is--At least not often. Now and then. In
fact, I like it rather for reading and that sort of thing. It's so quiet."
"I suppose you read a great deal?"

"When one teaches one has to."
"But you ..."
"I'm rather fond of reading, certainly. Are you?"
"I love it."
Mr. Lewisham was glad she loved reading. He would have been
disappointed had she answered differently. But she spoke with real
fervour. She loved reading! It was pleasant. She would understand him
a little perhaps. "Of course," she went on, "I'm not clever like some
people are. And I have to read books as I get hold of them."
"So do I," said Mr. Lewisham, "for the matter of that.... Have you
read ... Carlyle?"
The conversation was now fairly under way. They were walking side
by side beneath the swaying boughs. Mr. Lewisham's sensations were
ecstatic, marred only by a dread of some casual boy coming upon them.
She had not read much Carlyle. She had always wanted to, even from
quite a little girl--she had heard so much about him. She knew he was a
Really Great Writer, a very Great Writer indeed. All she had read of
him she liked. She could say that. As much as she liked anything. And
she had seen his house in Chelsea.
Lewisham, whose knowledge of London had been obtained by
excursion trips on six or seven isolated days, was much impressed by
this. It seemed to put her at once on a footing of intimacy with this
imposing Personality. It had never occurred to him at all vividly that
these Great Writers had real abiding places. She gave him a few
descriptive touches that made the house suddenly real and distinctive to
him. She lived quite near, she said, at least within walking distance, in
Clapham. He instantly forgot the vague design of lending her his
"_Sartor Resartus_" in his curiosity to learn more about her home.
"Clapham--that's almost in London, isn't it?" he said.
"Quite," she said, but she volunteered no further