When she was married, she would of course see him very often—­Mr. Egremont.  He would be at the library constantly, no doubt.  Perhaps he would come sometimes and sit in their room.  And when he began his lectures in the room upstairs, would it not be possible for her to hear him?  She would so like to, just once.  She could at all events creep softly up and listen at the door.  How beautiful his lectures must be!  Gilbert could never speak strongly enough in praise of them.  They would be a little hard to understand, perhaps; but then she was going to read books more than ever, and get knowledge.

She was in the part of Lambeth Walk farthest from her own street, having come there by chance, for she had observed nothing on the way.  She did not wish to go home yet.  One end of Paradise Street joins the Walk, and into that she turned.  If only there were a chance of Totty Nancarrow’s being at home!  But Totty was very regular at work.  Still, an inquiry at the door would be no harm.

Little Jack Bunce was standing in the open doorway; he had a rueful countenance, marked with recent tears.

‘Do you know whether Miss Nancarrow’s in?’ Thyrza asked of the little fellow.

He regarded her, and nodded silently.

‘Really?  She’s really in?’

‘Yes, she’s up in her room,’ was the grave answer.

Thyrza ran upstairs.  A tap at the door, and Totty’s voice—­ unmistakable—­gave admission.  The girl sat sewing; on the bed lay a child, asleep.

Totty, looking delighted at Thyrza’s coming, held up her finger to impose quietness.  Thyrza took the only other chair there was, and drew it near to her friend.

‘That’s Nelly Bunce,’ Totty said in a low voice, nodding to the bed.  ’Just when I was going back to work, what did the child do but tumble head over heels half down stairs, running after me.  It’s a wonder she don’t kill herself.  I don’t think there’s no more harm done except a big bump on the back of the head, but Mrs. Ladds wasn’t in, and I didn’t like to go and leave the little thing; she cried herself to sleep.  So there’s half a day lost!

Thyrza kept silence.  She had felt that she would like to talk with Totty, yet now she could find nothing to say.

‘How’s things going on?’ Totty asked, smiling.

‘Very well, I think.’

‘So the day’s coming, Thyrza.’

Thyrza played with the ends of a small boa which was about her neck.  She had no reply.  Her tongue refused to utter a sound.

‘What’s the matter?’

Thyrza’s hand fell, she touched the sewing that was on Totty’s lap.  Then she touched Totty’s hand.

‘Will you tell me about—­about Mr. Ackroyd?’

Totty drew in her lips, knitted her brows, then bent to bite off an end of cotton.

‘What is there to tell?’ she asked.

‘Is he doing as he promised?’

‘As far as I know,’ said the other, in a voice which affected indifference.