‘Well, well,’ said the old man, chuckling from sheer pleasure in her affection, ‘there’s no knowin’.  I’d like to go to the seaside once more, and I’d rather you was with me than any one else.  We always find something to talk about, I think, Lyddy.  And ’taint with everybody I care to talk nowadays.  It’s hard to find people as has the same thoughts.  But you and me, we remember together, don’t we, Lyddy?  Now, do you remember one night as there come a soldier into the shop, a soldier as wanted to buy—­’

‘A looking-glass!’ Lydia exclaimed.  ‘I know!  I remember!’

’A looking-glass!  And when he’d paid for it, he took up his stick an’ smashed the glass right in the middle, then walked off with it under his arm!’

’Why, what years it must be since I thought of that, grandad!  And I ran away, frightened!’

’I was frightened myself too.  And we never could understand it!  Last night, when I was lying awake, that soldier came back to me, and I laughed so; and I thought, I’ll ask Lyddy to-morrow if she remembers that.’

They both laughed, then pursued their walk.

‘Why look,’ said Mr. Boddy presently, ‘here’s Mr. Ackroyd a-comin’ along!’

Lydia had already seen him; that was why she had become silent.

‘You’re not going to stop, are you, grandad?’ she asked, under her breath.

‘Why no, my dear?  Not if you don’t wish.’

‘I’d rather not.’

Ackroyd was walking with his hands in his pockets, looking carelessly about him.  He recognised the two at a little distance, and drew one hand forth.  Till he got quite near he affected not to have seen them; then, without a smile, he raised his hat, and walked past, his pace accelerated.  Lydia, also with indifferent face, just bent to the greeting.  Mr. Boddy had given a friendly nod.

There was silence between the companions, then Lydia said: 

’I’ve thought it better, grandad, not to—­not to be quite the same with Mr. Ackroyd as I used to be.’

’Yes, yes, Lyddy; I understand, There’s a deal of talk about him.  I’m sorry.  He’s done me more than one good turn, and I hope he’ll get straight again yet.  I’m afraid, my dear, as—­you know—­the disappointment—­’

Lydia interrupted with firmness.

’That’s no excuse at all—­not a bit!  If he really felt the disappointment so much he ought to have borne it like a man.  Other people have as much to bear.  I never thought he was a man of that kind, never!  We won’t say anything more about him.’

Their conversation so lightened the way that they reached Westminster Bridge, and returned by the road which runs along the rear of the hospital.

‘You won’t come in, Lyddy?’ said the old man, when they were near the shop again.

’Not to-day, grandad.  I’m going to tea with Mrs. Grail and Gilbert, because Thyrza’s away.’

He acquiesced, trying to conceal the sadness he felt.  Lydia kissed his cheek, and left him.