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 hesitated awkwardly, and then in silence held out his hand. She
took it mechanically. He found his voice. "Miss Henderson," he said.
"What do you want?" she asked faintly.
"I don't know," he said.... "I want to talk to you."
"Yes?" Her heart was beating fast.
He found the thing unexpectedly difficult.
"May I--? Are you expecting--? Have you far to go? I would like to
talk to you. 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. "Why did you never write?"
he asked bitterly.
"I wrote."
"Again, I mean."
"I did--in July."
"I never had it.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113