In him she could imagine no change. His face was as present to her as if she had seen him an hour ago, and she never asked herself whether two years would have made any alteration even in his appearance. His voice was the voice in which he had spoken to Mrs. Ormonde, when he uttered the golden words that said he loved her. He would speak now in the same way, with those inflections which she knew so well, dearer music than any she had learnt or could learn. In the beginning she had known a few fears; time then was so long--so long before her; but what had she to do with fear now? Was he not Walter Egremont, the man of all men--the good, wise, steadfast? She had heard much praise of him in the old days, but never praise enough. No one knew him well enough; no one the half as well as she did. Should she not know him who dwelt in her heart?

His life had always been strange to her, but by ceaseless imagining she had pictured it to herself so completely that she believed she could follow him day by day. Gilbert Grail had told her that he dwelt in a room full of books, near the British Museum, which also was full of books. Most of his time was spent in study; she understood what that meant. He did not give lectures now; that had come miserably to an end.

He had a few friends, one or two men like himself, who thought and talked of high and wonderful things, and one or two ladies, of course--Mrs. Ormonde, and, perhaps, Miss Newthorpe. But probably Miss Newthorpe was married now. And, indeed, he did not care much to talk with ladies. He would go occasionally out of London, as he used to; perhaps would go abroad. If he crossed the sea, he must think much of her, for the sea always brings thoughts of those one loves. And so he lived, only wishing for the time to go by.

Lydia's visit was on Sunday. She was to come immediately after dinner; and, perhaps, though it remained uncertain--for she had not ventured to speak of it in her letter--they would have tea with the Emersons.

Concerning Thyrza's sister Mrs. Emerson had much curiosity, but she was not ill-bred. She made no attempt to get a glimpse of Lydia as the latter went upstairs to Thyrza's room. Thyrza stood just within her open door. She had put a flower in her hair for the welcoming.

'So this is where you have lived all this time,' Lydia said, looking about the room. 'How pretty it is, Thyrza! But of course it's a lady's room.'

The other stood with her hands together before her, and, a little timidly, said:

'Do I look like a lady? Suppose you didn't know me, Lyddy, should you think I was a lady?'

'Of course I should,' her sister answered, though in a way which showed that she did not care to dwell on the subject.

Still, Thyrza laughed with pleasure.

'And do you think I love my sister a bit the less?'

'Of course I don't.'

Lydia was not quite at her ease.

'I'm not at all sure of that. Take your things off and sit down in that chair, and talk to me as if we were in the old room at home. I must see our room again, Lyddy. I must see it before long.'

Lydia always had to overcome feelings of suspicion and remoteness at the beginning of her meetings with Thyrza; time had not changed her in this respect; she still feared that something was being concealed from her. And to-day it was long before she grew sufficiently accustomed to the room to talk with freedom. Thyrza lost all hope of persuading her to have tea with the Emersons. She was obliged to broach the subject, however, and it excited no less opposition than she had looked for.

Lydia shrank from the thought. Yet, when Thyrza ceased to urge, and even exerted herself to make her sister forget all about it, Lydia said all at once:

'Do you always have tea with them on Sundays?'

'Yes. But it doesn't make the least difference. I have it here by myself other days, and I can do just as I like about it. Don't trouble, dear.'

'There won't be anybody except those two?'

'Oh no. There never is.'

Lydia changed her mind. Much as she disliked meeting strangers and sitting at their table, she felt a wish to see these people with whom Thyrza lived, that she might form her own opinion of them. Thyrza, much delighted, ran down at once to tell Mrs. Emerson.

Having made up her mind to face the trial, Lydia went through it as might have been expected, sensibly and becomingly. Clara made much of her; Mr. Emerson--at home for once--was languidly polite. After tea Thyrza was asked to sing, but she excused herself as having no voice to-day. Her real reason was that she could only sing 'week-day' songs, and, though not certain, she thought it just possible that Lydia might dislike that kind of thing on Sunday. However, the good Lyddy had not quite reached that pass.

The sisters went upstairs again. Lydia had found Mrs. Emerson very different from her expectation, and was feeling a relief. She talked naturally once more. A subject of much interest to both was the approaching marriage of Totty Nancarrow.

'But is it _quite_ certain this time, Lyddy?'

'Oh, quite, dear. The names are up in the registry office.'

Lydia knew nothing of Totty's fortune, nor did any one else in Lambeth.

To this day Totty and her husband have kept that a secret.

'Well, what a girl Totty is!' Thyrza exclaimed. 'And she used to declare that she wouldn't be married on any account. Of course I always knew that was all nonsense. I shall go and see her some day, Lyddy, before long.'

Lydia noticed the frequency with which Thyrza spoke of shortly seeing old places and old friends. It puzzled her, but she asked for no explanation. Perhaps all these mysteries would be at an end in time.

Thyrza found it very hard to part to-night. She found numberless excuses for detaining Lydia from moment to moment, when it was really time for her to go. She was agitated, and as if with some great joy.

'Next Sunday, at the same time, Lyddy!' she repeated again and again.

'But is there any fear of me forgetting it, dearest?' urged her sister.

'No, no! But I am so glad for you to come here. You like coming? I don't think I shall write to you in the week; but of course you'll write, if there's anything. I _might_ send a line; but no, I don't think I shall. It'll be such a short time till Sunday, won't it? Does the week go quickly with you? Oh, we _must_ say good-bye; it's getting too late. Good-bye, my own, my dearest, my old Lyddy! Think of me every hour--I'm always the same to you, whatever kind of dress I wear; you know that, don't you? Good-bye, dear Lyddy!'

She clung to Lydia and kissed her. They went downstairs together, then, before opening the door, again embraced and kissed each other silently.

When a few yards away, Lydia turned. Thyrza stood on the door-step; light from within the house shone on her golden hair and just made her face visible. She was kissing her hand....

It was Saturday. The week had been neither long nor short; Thyrza could not distinguish the days in looking back upon them. She had not lived in time, but in the eternity of a rapturous anticipation. Her daily duties had been performed as usual, but with as little consciousness as if she had done all in sleep. She rose, and it was Saturday morning.

What time to-day? That he would let one day pass had never occurred to her as a possibility. But perhaps he would be at Eastbourne in the morning, and in that case she must wait many hours. Happily, she had nothing to attend to; today she could not even have pretended to live her wonted life.

Mrs. Emerson would be out till evening. No one would come upstairs to disturb about trifles.

She pretended to breakfast, then sat down by the window. She was fearful now, not for the event, but of her own courage when the time came. Could she stand before him? In what words could she speak to him?

Yet she must not let him doubt what her two years had been. Would it be right to tell him that he came not unexpected, to confess that she had heard him when he spoke to Mrs. Ormonde? Not at once, not to-day. He must know, but not to-day.

How short a time, two years; how long, how endlessly long each hour on this day of waiting!

For the morning passed, and he did not come. He was at Eastbourne; he had not even asked Mrs. Ormonde to keep her word till the very day came.

Her dinner was brought up, and was sent down again untouched. She sat still at the window. Every wheel that approached made her heart leap; its dull rumbling into the distance sickened her with disappointment.

But most likely he would walk to the house, and then she would not know till the servant came up to tell her.

Why had she not thought to get a railway-guide, that she might know all the trains from Eastbourne? She could not now go out to purchase one; he would come in her absence.

It drew to evening. Thyrza knew neither hunger nor thirst; she did not even feel weary. Dread was creeping upon her. She fought with it resolutely. She would be no traitor to herself, to him her other self.

He might very well leave it till evening, to make sure of her being at home.

Her mind racked her with absurd doubts. Had she mistaken? _Was_ this the day?

Pale and cold as marble, whilst the evening twilight died upon her face. She did not move. Better to sit so still that she forgot impatience, perchance forgot time. The vehicles in the street were fewer now; her heart-throbs as each drew near were the more violent.

Nor would the inward pulse recover its quietness when there was silence. She heard it always; she felt it as an unceasing pain.

Why should she rise and light the lamp? If he did not come, what matter if she sat in darkness and pain for ever?

And the long summer evening did in truth become night. The street grew yet more quiet. She saw the moon, very clear and beautiful.

There sounded a loud double-knock at the street door. She sprang up and stood listening. It was a visitor to the Emersons. Even when assured of that, something in her would not believe it, hoped against conviction.

But at length she went back to her chair. No tears; but the pain harder to bear than ever.