“—­chance to meet again, perhaps,” said Mr. Lewisham, with a sudden lack of spirit.

“I hope so too,” she said.

Pause.  Mr. Bonover’s features, and particularly a bushy pair of black eyebrows, were now very near, those eyebrows already raised, apparently to express a refined astonishment.

“Is this Mr. Bonover approaching?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Prolonged pause.

Would he stop and accost them?  At any rate this frightful silence must end.  Mr. Lewisham sought in his mind for some remark wherewith to cover his employer’s approach.  He was surprised to find his mind a desert.  He made a colossal effort.  If they could only talk, if they could only seem at their ease!  But this blank incapacity was eloquent of guilt.  Ah!

“It’s a lovely day, though,” said Mr. Lewisham.  “Isn’t it?”

She agreed with him.  “Isn’t it?” she said.

And then Mr. Bonover passed, forehead tight reefed so to speak, and lips impressively compressed.  Mr. Lewisham raised his mortar-board, and to his astonishment Mr. Bonover responded with a markedly formal salute—­mock clerical hat sweeping circuitously—­and the regard of a searching, disapproving eye, and so passed.  Lewisham was overcome with astonishment at this improvement on the nod of their ordinary commerce.  And so this terrible incident terminated for the time.

He felt a momentary gust of indignation.  After all, why should Bonover or anyone interfere with his talking to a girl if he chose?  And for all he knew they might have been properly introduced.  By young Frobisher, say.  Nevertheless, Lewisham’s spring-tide mood relapsed into winter.  He was, he felt, singularly stupid for the rest of their conversation, and the delightful feeling of enterprise that had hitherto inspired and astonished him when talking to her had shrivelled beyond contempt.  He was glad—­positively glad—­when things came to an end.

At the park gates she held out her hand.  “I’m afraid I have interrupted your reading,” she said.

“Not a bit,” said Mr. Lewisham, warming slightly.  “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a conversation....”

“It was—­a breach of etiquette, I am afraid, my speaking to you, but I did so want to thank you....”

“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Lewisham, secretly impressed by the etiquette.

“Good-bye.”  He stood hesitating by the lodge, and then turned back up the avenue in order not to be seen to follow her too closely up the West Street.

And then, still walking away from her, he remembered that he had not lent her a book as he had planned, nor made any arrangement ever to meet her again.  She might leave Whortley anywhen for the amenities of Clapham.  He stopped and stood irresolute.  Should he run after her?  Then he recalled Bonover’s enigmatical expression of face.  He decided that to pursue her would be altogether too conspicuous.  Yet ...  So he stood in inglorious hesitation, while the seconds passed.