ve that Mrs. Ormonde was ignorant of, and the incident of her
having surprised a secret.

'Since Saturday?' Mrs. Ormonde repeated. 'What did you wait for on
Saturday?'

She had a wretched suspicion. From Egremont alone that information
could have come to Thyrza. Had he played detestably false, having by
some means, at the height of his passion, communicated with the girl?
But the thought could only pass through her mind; it would not bear the
light of reason for a moment. Impossible for him to speak and act so
during these past days, knowing that his dishonesty was certain of
being discovered. Impossible to attach such suspicion to him at all.

'I expected to see him,' Thyrza replied. 'I knew he was to come in two
years. I have waited all the time; and now he has not come. I heard----'

She checked herself, and looked at the trellis at the back of the
summer-house. She understood now that it was needful to explain her
knowledge.

'You heard, Thyrza----?'

'That night that he was here. I had walked to look at your house. I was
going home again when he passed me--he didn't see me--and went into the
garden. I couldn't go back at once; I had to sit down and rest. It was
on the other side of the leaves.' She pointed. 'I sat down there
without knowing he would be here and I should hear him talking to you.
I heard all you said--about the two years. I have been waiting for him
to come.'

Mrs. Ormonde could not reply; what words would express what she felt in
learning this? Thyrza's eyes were still fixed upon her.

'I want you to tell me where he is, Mrs. Ormonde.'

It was a summons that could not be avoided.

'Sit here, Thyrza. I will tell you. Sit down and let me speak to you.'

'No, no! Tell me now! Why not? Why should I sit down? What is there to
say?'

The words were not weakly complaining, but of passionate insistence.
Thyrza believed that Mrs. Ormonde was preparing to elude her, was
shaping excuses. Her eyes watched the other's every movement keenly,
with fear and hostility. She felt within reach of her desire, yet held
back by this woman from attaining it. Every instant of silence
heightened the maddening tumult of her heart and brain. She had
suffered so terribly since Saturday. It seemed as if her gentleness,
her patience, were converted into their opposites, which now ruled her
tyrannously.

'Mr. Egremont is not in London,' Mrs. Ormonde said at last. She dreaded
the result of any word she might say. S