LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM
"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.
He reached his lodging at last to find Mrs. Munday half-way through dinner.
"You get them books of yours," said Mrs. Munday, who took a motherly interest in him, "and you read and you read, and you take no account of time. And now you'll have to eat your dinner half cold and no time for it to settle proper before you goes off to school. It's ruination to a stummik—such ways."
"Oh, never mind my stomach, Mrs. Munday," said Lewisham, roused from a tangled and apparently gloomy meditation; "that's my affair." Quite crossly he spoke for him.
"I'd rather have a good sensible actin' stummik than a full head," said Mrs. Munday, "any day."
"I'm different, you see," snapped Mr. Lewisham, and relapsed into silence and gloom.
("Hoity toity!" said Mrs. Munday under her breath.)
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