They stood facing one another for an expressive moment, and then by a movement she indicated her intention to walk along the avenue with him. "I wanted so much," she said, looking down at her feet, "to thank you for letting Teddy off, you know. That is why I wanted to see you." Lewisham took his first step beside her. "And it's odd, isn't it," she said, looking up into his face, "that I should meet you here in just the same place. I believe ... Yes. The very same place we met before." Mr. Lewisham was tongue-tied. "Do you often come here?" she said. "Well," he considered--and his voice was most 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 she liked. She could say that. As much as she liked anything. And she had seen his house in Chelsea. Lewisham, whose knowledge of London had been obtained by excursion trips on six or seven isolated days, was much impressed by this. It seemed to put her at once on a footing of intimacy with this imposing Personality. It had never occurred to him at all vividly that these Great Writers had real abiding places. She gave him a few descriptive touches that made the house suddenly real and distinctive to him. She lived quite near, she said, at least within walking distance, in Clapham. He instantly forgot the vague design of lending her his "_Sartor Resartus_" in his curiosity to learn more about her home. "Clapham--that's almost in London, isn't it?" he said.