LEWISHAM INSISTS
am. You felt that last night. You helped find us out. . . ."
"When first I came to London I used to wander about Clapham looking for you," said Lewisham, "week after week."
They had crossed the bridge and were in a narrow little street of shabby shops near Clapham Junction before they talked again. She kept her face averted and expressionless.
"I'm sorry," said Lewisham, with a sort of stiff civility, "if I seem to be forcing myself upon you. I don't want to pry into your affairs—if you don't wish me to. The sight of you has somehow brought back a lot of things. . . . I can't explain it. Perhaps—I had to come to find you—I kept on thinking of your face, of how you used to smile, how you jumped from the gate by the lock, and how we had tea. . . a lot of things."
He stopped again.
"A lot of things."
"If I may come," he said, and went unanswered. They crossed the wide streets by the Junction and went on towards the Common.
"I live down this road," she said stopping abruptly at a corner. "I would rather. . ."
"But I have said nothing."
She looked at him with her face white, unable to speak for a space. "It can do no good," she said. "I am mixed up with this. . . ."
She stopped.
He spoke deliberately. "I shall come," he said, "to-morrow night."
341
