“That piece,” she chose haphazard, “with the black spike sticking out from it.”

A mass of snowy blossom it was against the April sky, and Lewisham, straggling for it—­it was by no means the most accessible—­saw with fantastic satisfaction a lengthy scratch flash white on his hand, and turn to red.

“Higher up the lane,” he said, descending triumphant and breathless, “there is blackthorn....  This cannot compare for a moment....”

She laughed and looked at him as he stood there flushed, his eyes triumphant, with an unpremeditated approval.  In church, in the gallery, with his face foreshortened, he had been effective in a way, but this was different.  “Show me,” she said, though she knew this was the only place for blackthorn for a mile in either direction.

“I knew I should see you,” he said, by way of answer, “I felt sure I should see you to-day.”

“It was our last chance almost,” she answered with as frank a quality of avowal.  “I’m going home to London on Monday.”

“I knew,” he cried in triumph.  “To Clapham?” he asked.

“Yes.  I have got a situation.  You did not know that I was a shorthand clerk and typewriter, did you?  I am.  I have just left the school, the Grogram School.  And now there is an old gentleman who wants an amanuensis.”

“So you know shorthand?” said he.  “That accounts for the stylographic pen.  Those lines were written....  I have them still.”

She smiled and raised her eyebrows.  “Here,” said Mr. Lewisham, tapping his breast-pocket.

“This lane,” he said—­their talk was curiously inconsecutive—­“some way along this lane, over the hill and down, there is a gate, and that goes—­I mean, it opens into the path that runs along the river bank.  Have you been?”

“No,” she said.

“It’s the best walk about Whortley.  It brings you out upon Immering Common.  You must—­before you go.”

“Now?” she said with her eyes dancing.

“Why not?”

“I told Mrs. Frobisher I should be back by four,” she said.

“It’s a walk not to be lost.”

“Very well,” said she.

“The trees are all budding,” said Mr. Lewisham, “the rushes are shooting, and all along the edge of the river there are millions of little white flowers floating on the water, I don’t know the names of them, but they’re fine....  May I carry that branch of blossom?”

As he took it their hands touched momentarily ... and there came another of those significant gaps.

“Look at those clouds,” said Lewisham abruptly, remembering the remark he had been about to make and waving the white froth of blackthorn, “And look at the blue between them.”

“It’s perfectly splendid.  Of all the fine weather the best has been kept for now.  My last day.  My very last day.”