“Yes—­in marriage,” said Susan.

“No!—­in a thousand other ways—­we hardly dream of yet.  Not marriage only—­but comradeship—­help—­in all the great—­impersonal—­delightful things!”

“You look like a prophetess,” said Susan, appraising her sister’s kindled beauty, with an artistic eye; “but I should like to know what Lady Tatham has to say!”

Lydia was silent, her lip quivering a little.

“And I warn you,” Susan continued, greatly daring, “that Faversham won’t let you do what you like with him!”

Lydia rose slowly, gathered up her golden veil into one big knot without speaking, and went on with her preparations for bed.

Susy too uncoiled her small figure and stood up.

“I’ve told mamma not to bother you,” she said abruptly.

Lydia threw an arm round her tormentor.

“Dear Sue, I don’t want to scold, but if you only knew how you spoil things!”

Susy’s eyes twinkled.  She let Lydia kiss her, and then walking very slowly to the door, so as not to have an appearance of being put to flight, she disappeared.

Lydia was left to think—­and think—­her eyes on the ground.  Never had life run so warmly and richly; she was amply conscious of it.  And what, pray, in spite of Susy’s teasing, had love to say to it?  Passion was ruled out—­she held the senses in leash, submissive.  Harry Tatham, indeed, was now writing to her every day; and she to him, less often.  Faversham, too, was writing to her, coming to consult her; and all that a woman’s sympathy, all that mind and spirit could do to help him in his heavy and solitary task she would do.  Toward Tatham she felt with a tender sisterliness; anxious often; yet confident in herself, and in the issue.  In Faversham’s case, it was rather a keen, a romantic curiosity, to see how a man would quit himself in a great ordeal suddenly thrust upon him; and a girlish pride that he should turn to her for help.

His first note to her lay there—­inside her sketch book.  It had reached her the morning after his interview with Mr. Melrose.

“I didn’t find Mr. Melrose in a yielding mood last night.  I beg of you don’t expect too much.  Please, please be patient, and remember that if I can do as yet but little, I honestly believe nobody else could do anything.  We must wait and watch—­here a step, and there a step.  But I think I may ask you to trust me; and, if you can, suggest to others to do the same.  How much your sympathy helps me I cannot express.”

Of course she would be patient.  But she was triumphantly certain of him—­and his power.  What Susy said to her unwillingness to go south was partly true.  She would have liked to stay and watch the progress of things on the Melrose estates; to be at hand if Mr. Faversham wanted her.  She thought of Mainstairs—­that dying girl—­the sickly children—­the helpless old people.  Indignant pity gripped her.  That surely would be the first—­the very first step; a mere question of weeks—­or days.  It was so simple, so obvious!  Mr. Melrose would be shamed into action!  Mr. Faversham could not fail there.