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."
He glanced at her; her face was downcast. "Why did you never write?" he asked bitterly.
"I wrote."
"Again, I mean."
"I did—in July."
"I never had it."
"It came back."
