'I'd rather not, if you don't mind, sir.'

'Then it will be simplest if you go to my rooms in Great Russell Street, just by the British Museum. I leave town tomorrow; Mrs. Ormonde will be quite alone to meet you. Could you be there at nine o'clock?'

The appointment was made, Egremont leaving one of his cards to insure recollection of the address. Then he spoke a word or two to the children, and Bunce led him down to the door. They shook hands.

'I shall see you at the library soon, I hope,' Egremont said. 'You must give me your best help in making it known.'

The words sounded so hollow in his own ears that, as he turned to go along the dark street, he could have laughed at himself scornfully.

As Bunce reascended, someone met and passed him, hurrying with light feet and woman's garments silently.

'That you, Miss Nancarrow?' he asked, for there was no light on the staircase.

'No,' came a muffled reply. 'Miss Nancarrow isn't in.'

It was the voice of Thyrza Trent. Bunce did not recognise it, for he knew her too slightly.

She had come to the house not long before Egremont. After a day of suffering she wished to speak with Totty. Totty was the only one to whom she _could_ speak now; Gilbert, her own Lyddy--them she dreaded.

Notwithstanding the terms on which she had parted with her friend on Monday night, she felt an irresistible need of seeing her. It was one way, moreover, of passing a part of the evening away from Walnut Tree Walk. But Totty was out, had not yet come home since her work. Thyrza said she would go upstairs and wait.

She did so. Totty's room was dark and, of course, fireless; but she cared neither for the darkness nor the cold. She groped her way to a chair and sat very still. It was a blessed relief to be here, to be safe from Gilbert and Lyddy for ever so short a time, to sit and clasp the darkness like something loved. She was making up her mind to tell Totty everything. Someone she must tell--someone. Not Lyddy; that would be terrible. But Totty had a kind heart, and would keep the secret, perchance could advise in some way. Though what advice could anyone give?

What voice was that? She had heard someone knock at Bunce's door, then heard Bunce go down. He was coming up again, and someone with him--someone who spoke in a voice which made her heart leap. She sprang to the door to listen. Bunce and his companion entered the opposite room, and shut themselves in. Thyrza opened her door as softly as possible, leaned forward, listened. Yes, it was _his_ voice!

What was he doing here? He had not come to the library, had not kept his promise. Was it not a promise to her? He had said that she should see him again, should be in the room alone with him, talk with him for one hour--one poor, short hour; and in the end it was denied. Why did he come to see Mr. Bunce? But he was well; nothing had happened to him, which all day had been her dread.

She would not try to overhear their conversation. Enough that he was safe in that next room, never mind for what purpose he came. She was near to him again.

She threw up her hands against the door, and leaned her face, her bosom on it. Her throat was so dry that she felt choking; her heart--poor heart! could it bear this incessant throbbing pain? She swallowed tears, and had some little bodily solace.

But if Totty should come! She hoped to be alone as long as he was there. It was so sweet to be near him, and alone!

And Totty did not come. Of a sudden the opposite door opened. He was leaving, going forth again she knew not whither--only that it was away from her.

Then desire became act. She heard the house-door close, and on the moment sped from the room. She scarcely knew what she said to Bunce on the stairs. Now she was in the street. Which way? There he was, there, at but a little distance.

But she must not approach him here, in this street. Any moment Totty might come--one of the Bowers might pass. She kept at an even remoteness, following him. Into Paradise Street, into High Street, out into Lambeth Road, with the bridge in sight. He meant to go along the Embankment. But it was quieter here. A quickened step, almost a run, and she was by his side.

'Mr. Egremont!'

He stood.

'Mr. Egremont. I thought it was you. I wanted--'

They were under the church. As Thyrza spoke, the bells suddenly broke out with their harsh clanging; they had been ringing for the last twenty minutes, and were now recommencing after a pause.

Egremont glanced towards the tower, startled and seemingly annoyed.

'I'm very sorry I couldn't come to the library this morning, Miss Trent,' he said, very formally. 'I was unexpectedly kept away.'

What automaton had taken his place and spoke in this contemptible tone of conventional politeness?

'Those bells are so loud,' Thyrza said, complainingly. 'I wanted to--to ask you something. May I go with you a little further--just to the bridge?'

He said nothing, but looked at her and walked on. They entered the bridge. Egremont still advanced, and Thyrza kept by him, till they were nearly on the Westminster side of the river. Very few people passed them, and no vehicles disturbed the quiet of the dark road along the waterside. On the one hand was a black mass of wharfs, a few barges moored in front; on the other, at a little distance, the gloomy shape of Millbank prison. The jangle of the bells was softened.

'They certainly might be more musical,' Egremont said, with a forced laugh. 'I should not care to live in one of the houses just under the church.'

She was speaking.

'I waited this morning. Oh, it didn't matter; but I was afraid--I thought you might have had some accident, Mr. Egremont.'

'No. It was business that prevented me from coming. But you wish to ask me something, Miss Trent?'

'If you will be there to-morrow--that was all. I like helping. I like looking at the books, and putting them up--if you would let me.'

The nearest lamp showed him her face. What held him from making that pale loveliness his own? His heart throbbed as terribly as hers; he with difficulty heard when she spoke, so loud was the rush of blood in his ears.

But he had begun the fight with himself. He could not turn away abruptly and leave her standing there; if the victory were to be won, it must be by sheer wrestle with the temptation, for her sake as well as his own. To let her so much as suspect his feeling were as bad as to utter it; nay, infinitely worse, for it would mean that he must not see her after to-night. He and she would then be each other's peril in a far direr sense than now.

He replied to her

'I'm so sorry; I shall not be there to-morrow. I have to go out of London.'

He looked her in the face unwaveringly. It was the look which tormented her, not that which she yearned for. She could not move away her eyes.

'You are going away, Mr. Egremont?'

'Yes, I am going out of England for a week or two--perhaps for longer.'

It was wrong--all wrong. In spite of himself he could not but admit a note of pathos. The automatic voice of politeness would not come at his bidding. He should have left her on the other side of the bridge, where the harsh bells allowed no delicacies of tone.

'To France?' she asked.

'No. To an island very near France. I must not keep you standing here, Miss Trent. It is very cold.'

Yes, the wind was cold, but perspiration covered his face.

'Please--only a minute. May I go to the library and do some more of the books? Are they all finished?'

'No. There's still one case of them, and more will be coming. Certainly you may go there if you wish.'

Her voice fell.

'But I shan't know how to put them. No, I can't do it alone.'

'I shall write to Mr. Grail, and tell him what I have been doing. You can help him.'