There was one hypothesis which Lydia quite left aside.  She did not ask herself whether Egremont might not truly and honestly love her sister.  It was natural enough that she should not think of it.  Every tradition weighed in favour of rascality on the young man’s part, and Lydia’s education did not suffice to raise her above the common point of view in such a matter.  A gentleman did not fall in love with a work-girl, not in the honest sense.  Lydia had the prejudices of her class, and her judgment went full against Egremont from the outset.  He had encouraged secret meetings, the kind of thing to be expected.  He must have known perfectly what a blow he was preparing for Gilbert, if the fact of these meetings should be discovered.  What did he care for that?  His selfishness was proof against every scruple, no doubt.

She could not argue as an educated person might have done.  Egremont’s zeal in his various undertakings made no plea for his character, in her mind.  To be sure, a more subtle reasoner might have given it as little weight, but that would have been the result of conscious wisdom.  Lydia could only argue from her predisposition regarding the class of ‘gentlemen.’  We know how she had shrunk from meeting Egremont.  Guided by Gilbert and Thyrza, she had taught herself to think well of him, but, given the least grounds of suspicion, class-instinct was urgent to condemn.

Only one way recommended itself to her, and that the way of love.  She must lead Thyrza to confide in her, must get at the secret by constraint of tenderness.  She might seem to suspect, but the grounds of her suspicion must be hidden.

Having resolved this, she leaned nearer and spoke gentle words such as might soothe.  Thyrza made no response, save that she raised her lids and looked wofully.

‘Dear one, what is it you’re keeping from me?’ Lydia pleaded.  ’Is it kind, Thyrza, is it kind to me?  It isn’t enough to tell me you’re poorly; there’s more than that.  Do you think I can look at you and not see that you have a secret from me?’

Thyrza had closed her eyes again, and was mute.

’Dear, how can you be afraid of me, your old Lyddy?  When there’s anything you’re glad of, you tell me; oughtn’t I to know far more when you’re in trouble?  Speak to me, dear sister!  I’ll put my head near yours; whisper it to me!  How can I go on in this way?  Every day I see you getting worse.  I’m miserable when I’m away at work; I haven’t a minute’s peace.  Be kind to me, and say what has happened.’

There was silence.

’Do you think there’s anything in me but love for you, my dearest, my Thyrza?  Do you think I could say a cruel word, tell me whatever you might?  Do you think I shan’t love you only the better, the more unhappy you are?  Perhaps I half know what it is, perhaps—­’

Thyrza started and gazed with the same wildness as when she first came in.

‘You know?  What do you know?  Tell me at once, Lyddy!’