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
