distance along Lambeth Walk, she turned off into a
street which began unpromisingly between low-built and poverty-stained
houses, but soon bettered in appearance. Its name is Walnut Tree Walk.
For the most part it consists of old dwellings, which probably were the
houses of people above the working class in days when Lambeth's squalor
was confined within narrower limits. The doors are framed with dark
wood, and have hanging porches. At the end of the street is a glimpse
of trees growing in Kennington Road.

To one of these houses Lydia admitted herself with a latch-key; she
ascended to the top floor and entered a room in the front. It was
sparely furnished, but with a certain cleanly comfort. A bed stood in
one corner; in another, a small washhand-stand; between them a low
chest of drawers with a looking-glass upon it. The rest was arranged
for day use; a cupboard kept out of sight household utensils and food.
Being immediately under the roof, the room was much heated after long
hours of sunshine. From the open window came a heavy scent of
mignonette.

Thyrza had laid the table for tea, and was sitting idly. It was not
easy to recognise her as Lydia's sister; if you searched her features
the sisterhood was there, but the type of countenance was so subtly
modified, so refined, as to become beauty of rare suggestiveness. She
was of pale complexion, and had golden hair; it was plaited in one
braid, which fell to her waist. Like Lydia's, her eyes were large and
full of light; every line of the face was delicate, harmonious, sweet;
each thought that passed through her mind reflected itself in a change
of expression, produced one knew not how, one phase melting into
another like flitting lights upon a stream in woodland. It was a subtly
morbid physiognomy, and impressed one with a sense of vague trouble.
There was none of the spontaneous pleasure in life which gave Lydia's
face such wholesome brightness; no impulse of activity, no resolve; all
tended to preoccupation, to emotional reverie. She had not yet
completed her seventeenth year, and there was still something of
childhood in her movements. Her form was slight, graceful, and of lower
stature than her sister's. She wore a dress of small-patterned print,
with a broad collar of cheap lace.

'It was too hot to light a fire,' she said, rising as Lydia entered.
'Mrs. Jarmey says she'll give us water for the tea.'

'I hoped you'd be having yours,' Lydia replied. 'It's near