Having put her things away, she opened another drawer, and looked over some of Lydia’s belongings.  She stroked them lightly, and returned each carefully to its place, saying to herself, ’Lyddy wants such and such a thing.  She’ll have more money to spend on herself soon.  And she shall have a really nice present on her next birthday.  Gilbert ‘ll give me money to buy it.’

Then she went to the mantel-piece, and played idly with a little ornament that stood there.  The trouble had been lighter for a few minutes, now it weighed again.  Her heart beat irregularly.  She leaned her elbows on the mantel-piece, and covered her face with her hands.  There was a strange heat in her blood, her breath was hot.

Was it raining still?  No, the pavement had dried, and there was no very dark cloud in the sky.  She could not sit here all through the afternoon.  A short walk would perhaps remove the headache which had begun to trouble her.

She descended the stairs very lightly, and hastened almost on tip-toe along the passage; the front door she closed as softly as possible behind her, and went in the direction away from Mrs. Grail’s parlour window.  To be sure she was free to leave the house as often as she pleased, but for some vague reason she wished just now not to be observed.  Perhaps Gilbert would think that she went about too much; but she could not, she could not, sit in the room.

Without express purpose, she again walked towards Brook Street.  No, she was not going to the library again; Mr. Egremont might still be there, and it would seem so strange of her.  But she went to a point whence she could see the building, and for some minutes stood looking at it.  Was he still within—­Mr. Egremont?  Those books would take him a long time to put on the shelves.  As she looked someone came out from the door; Mr. Egremont himself.  She turned and almost ran in her desire to escape his notice.

He was going home.  Even whilst hurrying, she tried to imagine how he was going to spend his evening.  From Gilbert’s description she had made a picture of his room in Great Russell Street.  Did he sit there all the evening among his books, reading, writing?  Not always, of course.  He was a gentleman, he had friends to go and see, people who lived in large houses, very grand people.  He talked with ladies, with such as Miss Newthorpe. (Thyrza did not trouble to notice where she was.  Her feet hurried her on, her head throbbed.  She was thinking, thinking.)

Such as Miss Newthorpe.  Yes, he knew that lady; knew her very well, as was evident from the way in which he spoke of her.  Of what did they talk, when they met?  No doubt she had often played to him, and when she played he would look at her, and she was very beautiful.

She would not think of Miss Newthorpe.  Somehow she did not feel to her in the same way as hitherto.