"I wanted to--that day, in Kensington
Gardens. But I didn't. I suppose I ought to have done so."
"I think you ought to have done so."
"Yes, I suppose I ought ... But I didn't. Somehow--it has been hard. I
didn't know what you would say. The thing seemed so rash, you know,
and all that."
He paused blankly.
"I suppose you had to do it," said Miss Heydinger presently, with her
eyes on his profile.
Lewisham began the second and more difficult part of his
explanation. "There's been a difficulty," he said, "all the way
along--I mean--about you, that is. It's a little difficult--The fact
is, my life, you know--She looks at things differently from what we
do."
"We?"
"Yes--it's odd, of course. But she has seen your letters--"
"You didn't show her--?"
"No. But, I mean, she knows you write to me, and she knows you write
about Socialism and Literature and--things we have in common--things
she hasn't."
"You mean to say she doesn't understand these things?"
"She's not thought about them. I suppose there's a sort of difference
in education--"
"And she objects--?"
"No," said Lewisham, lying promptly. "She doesn't _object_ ..."
"Well?" said Miss Heydinger, and her face was white.
"She feels that--She feels--she does not say, of course, but I know
she feels that it is something she ought to share.
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