ad.
There was a dread in her mind at waking, and in a few moments she
recognised it. Lydia was coming to-day. Would it be possible to sit and
talk with her?

Only by clinging with stern determination to the last hope. Something
had rendered it impossible for him to come yesterday, and to-day he was
not likely to come; no, not to-day. But there was always the morrow. By
refusing to think of anything but the morrow she might bear Lydia's
presence.

Sunday, Monday; and now it was Tuesday at dawn. Thyrza had but one
thought in her mind. Mrs. Ormonde was treacherous. She had broken her
promise. He was wishing to come to her, and knew not where she
was--Lydia would not tell him. Lydia too was pitiless.

She had sat still in her room since Sunday night. She had pleaded
illness to avoid all visits and all occupation. Whether really ill or
no, she could not say. Yes, there was the pain, but she had become so
used to that. She only knew that the days and the nights were endless,
that she no longer needed to eat, that the sunlight was burdensome to
her eyes.

Clara had been troublesome with her solicitude; it had needed an almost
angry word to secure privacy.

At mid-day Thyrza took up the railway-guide which she had procured and
sought for something in its pages. Then she began to attire herself for
going out. She looked into her purse. In a few minutes she went quietly
down the stairs, as if for an ordinary walk, and left the house.

CHAPTER XXXVII

A FRIENDLY OFFICE

On the Friday when Thyrza, in her happiness, had said 'Tomorrow he
comes,' Mrs. Ormonde also was thinking of a visitor, who might arrive
at any hour. Nine days ago she had received a telegram from New York,
informing her that Walter Egremont was there and about to embark for
England. She, too, avoided leaving the house. Her impatience and
nervousness were greater than she had thought such an event as this
could cause her. But it was years now since she had begun to accept
Walter in the place of her own dead son, and in that spirit she desired
his return from the exile of twice twelve months. It was with joy that
she expected him, though with one uncertainty which would give her
trouble now and then, a doubt which was, she felt, shadowy, which the
first five minutes of talk would put away.

She had dined, and was thinking that it was now too late to expect an
arrival, when the arrival itself was announced.

'A gentleman asks if you will see him