LEWISHAM INSISTS
a couple of hat pins, hung above her jacket, assumed these garments, and let herself out into the cold grey street.
She had hardly gone twenty yards from Lagune's door before she became aware of a man overtaking her and walking beside her. 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."
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