LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM
picture of the frog-like boy at home—he was a private student of the upper middle class—sitting in a convenient study with a writing-table, bookshelves and a shaded lamp—Lewisham worked at his chest of drawers with his great-coat on, and his feet in the lowest drawer wrapped in all his available linen—and in the midst of incredible conveniences the frog-like boy was working, working, working. Meanwhile Lewisham toiled through the foggy streets, Chelsea-ward, or, after he had left her, tramped homeward—full of foolish imaginings.
He began to think with bloodless lucidity of his entire relationship to Ethel. His softer emotions were in abeyance, but he told himself no lies. He cared for her, he loved to be with her and to talk to her and please her, but that was not all his desire. He thought of the bitter words of an orator at Hammersmith, who had complained that in our present civilisation even the elemental need of marriage was denied. Virtue had become a vice. "We marry in fear and trembling, sex for a home is the woman's traffic, and the man comes to his heart's desire when his heart's desire is dead." The thing which had seemed a mere flourish, came back now with a terrible air of truth. Lewisham saw that it was a case of divergent ways. On the one hand that shining staircase to fame and power that had been his dream from the very dawn of his adolescence, and on the other hand—Ethel.
And if he chose Ethel, even then would he have his choice? What would come of it? A few walks more or less! She was hopelessly poor, he was
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