Love and Mr. Lewisham | Page 9

information about her
domestic circumstances, "I like London," she generalised, "and
especially in winter." And she proceeded to praise London, its public
libraries, its shops, the multitudes of people, the facilities for "doing
what you like," the concerts one could go to, the theatres. (It seemed
she moved in fairly good society.) "There's always something to see
even if you only go out for a walk," she said, "and down here there's
nothing to read but idle novels. And those not new."

Mr. Lewisham had regretfully to admit the lack of such culture and
mental activity in Whortley. It made him feel terribly her inferior. He
had only his bookishness and his certificates to set against it all--and
she had seen Carlyle's house! "Down here," she said, "there's nothing to
talk about but scandal." It was too true.
At the corner by the stile, beyond which the willows were splendid
against the blue with silvery aments and golden pollen, they turned by
mutual impulse and retraced their steps. "I've simply had no one to talk
to down here," she said. "Not what I call talking."
"I hope," said Lewisham, making a resolute plunge, "perhaps while you
are staying at Whortley ..."
He paused perceptibly, and she, following his eyes, saw a voluminous
black figure approaching. "We may," said Mr. Lewisham, resuming his
remark, "chance to meet again, perhaps."
He had been about to challenge her to a deliberate meeting. A certain
delightful tangle of paths that followed the bank of the river had been
in his mind. But the apparition of Mr. George Bonover, headmaster of
the Whortley Proprietary School, chilled him amazingly. Dame Nature
no doubt had arranged the meeting of our young couple, but about
Bonover she seems to have been culpably careless. She now receded
inimitably, and Mr. Lewisham, with the most unpleasant feelings,
found himself face to face with a typical representative of a social
organisation which objects very strongly inter alia to promiscuous
conversation on the part of the young unmarried junior master.
"--chance to meet again, perhaps," said Mr. Lewisham, with a sudden
lack of spirit.
"I hope so too," she said.
Pause. Mr. Bonover's features, and particularly a bushy pair of black
eyebrows, were now very near, those eyebrows already raised,
apparently to express a refined astonishment.
"Is this Mr. Bonover approaching?" she asked.
"Yes."
Prolonged pause.
Would he stop and accost them? At any rate this frightful silence must
end. Mr. Lewisham sought in his mind for some remark wherewith to
cover his employer's approach. He was surprised to find his mind a
desert. He made a colossal effort. If they could only talk, if they could

only seem at their ease! But this blank incapacity was eloquent of guilt.
Ah!
"It's a lovely day, though," said Mr. Lewisham. "Isn't it?"
She agreed with him. "Isn't it?" she said.
And then Mr. Bonover passed, forehead tight reefed so to speak, and
lips impressively compressed. Mr. Lewisham raised his mortar-board,
and to his astonishment Mr. Bonover responded with a markedly
formal salute--mock clerical hat sweeping circuitously--and the regard
of a searching, disapproving eye, and so passed. Lewisham was
overcome with astonishment at this improvement on the nod of their
ordinary commerce. And so this terrible incident terminated for the
time.
He felt a momentary gust of indignation. After all, why should Bonover
or anyone interfere with his talking to a girl if he chose? And for all he
knew they might have been properly introduced. By young Frobisher,
say. Nevertheless, Lewisham's spring-tide mood relapsed into winter.
He was, he felt, singularly stupid for the rest of their conversation, and
the delightful feeling of enterprise that had hitherto inspired and
astonished him when talking to her had shrivelled beyond contempt. He
was glad--positively glad--when things came to an end.
At the park gates she held out her hand. "I'm afraid I have interrupted
your reading," she said.
"Not a bit," said Mr. Lewisham, warming slightly. "I don't know when
I've enjoyed a conversation...."
"It was--a breach of etiquette, I am afraid, my speaking to you, but I did
so want to thank you...."
"Don't mention it," said Mr. Lewisham, secretly impressed by the
etiquette.
"Good-bye." 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. Should he run after her?
Then he recalled Bonover's enigmatical expression of face. He decided
that to pursue her would be altogether too conspicuous. Yet ... So he

stood