"Paradise Row?" she corrected him softly. "No, dear, it's Queen's Road. It runs into Pimlico Road."
"I mean it used to be Paradise Row," he explained. "
It was the most fashionable street in Chelsea, you know. Everybody that was anybody lived here."
"Oh! Really!" She showed an amiable desire to be interested, but her interest did not survive more than a few seconds. "I didn't know. I know Paradise Walk. It's that horrid little passage down there on the right."
She had not the historic sense; and she did not understand his mood, did not in the slightest degree suspect that events had been whipping his ambition once more, and that at that moment he was enjoying the seventeenth and even the sixteenth centuries, and thinking of Sir Thomas More and Miss More, and all manner of grandiose personages and abodes, and rebelling obstinately against the fact, that he was as yet a nonentity in Chelsea, whereas he meant in the end to yield to nobody in distinction and renown. He knew that she did not understand, and he would not pretend to himself that she did. There was no reason why she should understand. He did not particularly want her to understand.
"Let's have a look at the river, shall we?" he suggested, and they moved towards Cheyne Walk.
"Dearest," she said, "you must come and have breakfast at the studio to-morrow morning. I shall get it myself."
"But Agg won't like me poking my nose in for breakfast."
"You great silly! Don't you know she simply adores you?"
He was certainly startled by this remark, and he began to like Agg.