But she must not approach him here, in this street.  Any moment Totty might come—­one of the Bowers might pass.  She kept at an even remoteness, following him.  Into Paradise Street, into High Street, out into Lambeth Road, with the bridge in sight.  He meant to go along the Embankment.  But it was quieter here.  A quickened step, almost a run, and she was by his side.

‘Mr. Egremont!’

He stood.

‘Mr. Egremont.  I thought it was you.  I wanted—­’

They were under the church.  As Thyrza spoke, the bells suddenly broke out with their harsh clanging; they had been ringing for the last twenty minutes, and were now recommencing after a pause.

Egremont glanced towards the tower, startled and seemingly annoyed.

’I’m very sorry I couldn’t come to the library this morning, Miss Trent,’ he said, very formally.  ‘I was unexpectedly kept away.’

What automaton had taken his place and spoke in this contemptible tone of conventional politeness?

‘Those bells are so loud,’ Thyrza said, complainingly.  ’I wanted to —­to ask you something.  May I go with you a little further—­just to the bridge?’

He said nothing, but looked at her and walked on.  They entered the bridge.  Egremont still advanced, and Thyrza kept by him, till they were nearly on the Westminster side of the river.  Very few people passed them, and no vehicles disturbed the quiet of the dark road along the waterside.  On the one hand was a black mass of wharfs, a few barges moored in front; on the other, at a little distance, the gloomy shape of Millbank prison.  The jangle of the bells was softened.

‘They certainly might be more musical,’ Egremont said, with a forced laugh.  ’I should not care to live in one of the houses just under the church.’

She was speaking.

’I waited this morning.  Oh, it didn’t matter; but I was afraid—­I thought you might have had some accident, Mr. Egremont.’

’No.  It was business that prevented me from coming.  But you wish to ask me something, Miss Trent?’

’If you will be there to-morrow—­that was all.  I like helping.  I like looking at the books, and putting them up—­if you would let me.’

The nearest lamp showed him her face.  What held him from making that pale loveliness his own?  His heart throbbed as terribly as hers; he with difficulty heard when she spoke, so loud was the rush of blood in his ears.

But he had begun the fight with himself.  He could not turn away abruptly and leave her standing there; if the victory were to be won, it must be by sheer wrestle with the temptation, for her sake as well as his own.  To let her so much as suspect his feeling were as bad as to utter it; nay, infinitely worse, for it would mean that he must not see her after to-night.  He and she would then be each other’s peril in a far direr sense than now.

He replied to her

’I’m so sorry; I shall not be there to-morrow.  I have to go out of London.’