‘No,’ came a muffled reply.  ‘Miss Nancarrow isn’t in.’

It was the voice of Thyrza Trent.  Bunce did not recognise it, for he knew her too slightly.

She had come to the house not long before Egremont.  After a day of suffering she wished to speak with Totty.  Totty was the only one to whom she could speak now; Gilbert, her own Lyddy—­them she dreaded.  Notwithstanding the terms on which she had parted with her friend on Monday night, she felt an irresistible need of seeing her.  It was one way, moreover, of passing a part of the evening away from Walnut Tree Walk.  But Totty was out, had not yet come home since her work.  Thyrza said she would go upstairs and wait.

She did so.  Totty’s room was dark and, of course, fireless; but she cared neither for the darkness nor the cold.  She groped her way to a chair and sat very still.  It was a blessed relief to be here, to be safe from Gilbert and Lyddy for ever so short a time, to sit and clasp the darkness like something loved.  She was making up her mind to tell Totty everything.  Someone she must tell—­someone.  Not Lyddy; that would be terrible.  But Totty had a kind heart, and would keep the secret, perchance could advise in some way.  Though what advice could anyone give?

What voice was that?  She had heard someone knock at Bunce’s door, then heard Bunce go down.  He was coming up again, and someone with him—­someone who spoke in a voice which made her heart leap.  She sprang to the door to listen.  Bunce and his companion entered the opposite room, and shut themselves in.  Thyrza opened her door as softly as possible, leaned forward, listened.  Yes, it was his voice!

What was he doing here?  He had not come to the library, had not kept his promise.  Was it not a promise to her?  He had said that she should see him again, should be in the room alone with him, talk with him for one hour—­one poor, short hour; and in the end it was denied.  Why did he come to see Mr. Bunce?  But he was well; nothing had happened to him, which all day had been her dread.

She would not try to overhear their conversation.  Enough that he was safe in that next room, never mind for what purpose he came.  She was near to him again.

She threw up her hands against the door, and leaned her face, her bosom on it.  Her throat was so dry that she felt choking; her heart —­poor heart! could it bear this incessant throbbing pain?  She swallowed tears, and had some little bodily solace.

But if Totty should come!  She hoped to be alone as long as he was there.  It was so sweet to be near him, and alone!

And Totty did not come.  Of a sudden the opposite door opened.  He was leaving, going forth again she knew not whither—­only that it was away from her.

Then desire became act.  She heard the house-door close, and on the moment sped from the room.  She scarcely knew what she said to Bunce on the stairs.  Now she was in the street.  Which way?  There he was, there, at but a little distance.