unreasonably hoarse when he spoke—"No. No. . . . That is At least not often. Now and then. In fact I like it rather for reading and that sort of thing. It's so quiet."
"I suppose you read a great deal?"
"When one teaches one has to."
"But you . . ."
"I'm rather fond of reading, certainly. Are you?"
"I love it."
Mr. Lewisham was glad she loved reading. He would have been disappointed had she answered differently. But she spoke with real fervour. She loved reading! It was pleasant. She would understand him a little perhaps. "Of course," she went on, "I'm not clever like some people are. And I have to read books as I get hold of them."
"So do I," said Mr. Lewisham, "for the matter of that. . . . Have you read . . . Carlyle?"
The conversation was now fairly under way. They were walking side by side beneath the swaying boughs. Mr. Lewisham's sensations were ecstatic, marred only by a dread of some casual boy coming upon them. She had not read much Carlyle. She had always wanted to, even from quite a little girl—she had heard so much about him. She knew he was a Really Great Writer, a very Great Writer indeed. All she had read of him
