She was very lonely in these days, Lydia.  Of her own sex, she had now no friend, unless it were poor old Mrs. Grail.  By changing her place of employment, she had lost even the satisfaction of being among familiar faces, and her new work-mates thought her dull.  The jokes and gossip of each morning were things of the past; she plied her needle every moment of the working day, her thoughts fixed on one unchanging subject.  Yes, for she could not really think even of Ackroyd; he was always, it is true, a presence in her mind, but there was no more pondering about him.  Every stitch at the lining of a hat meant a fraction of a coin, and each day’s result was to have earned something towards the money saved for Thyrza’s assistance.

With Mary Bower she spoke no longer, not even formal words.  That insult on the miserable night had been a blow Mary could not soon forgive, for it came just at the moment when, having heard her parents’ talk about Thyrza, she was sincerely anxious to reunite herself to her former friend and be what comfort to her she might.  So now, whenever Lydia went to see Mr. Boddy, she gave a private signal at the side door, and the old man descended to admit her.  Then, Totty Nancarrow.  Strangely, Lydia could now have been almost friends with Totty; she did not know why.  She met her by chance occasionally, and nodded, or at most spoke a brief greeting, yet each time she would have liked to stop and talk a little.  Totty had been Thyrza’s close friend; that formerly had been a source of jealous feeling, now it seemed to have become an attraction.  Totty gave looks that were not unkind, but did not make advances; she was a little ashamed of the way she had behaved when Lydia came to her for help.

Lydia did not think it necessary to tell Gilbert that she too wanted to let someone know that there was news from Thyrza.  After leaving the parlour, she ran out to a little shop in Kennington Road and purchased a sheet of note-paper and an envelope.  Writing a letter was by no means a simple thing to Lyddy; it was after midnight before she had schemed the sentences—­or rather, the one long hyper-Attic sentence—­in which she should convey her intelligence to Ackroyd.  Several things were to be considered in this composition.  First, it must be as brief as possible; then, it must be very formal in its mode of address.  Both these necessities came of the consideration that the letter would of course be shown to Totty Nancarrow, and Totty must have no cause of complaint.  ’Dear Mr. Ackroyd’—­that was written, but might it stand?  It meant so much, so much.  But how else to begin?  Did not everybody begin letters in that way?  She really could not say ‘Dear Sir.’  Then—­for the letter must be finished, the hour was getting so late—­’Yours truly, Lydia Trent.’  Surely that was commonplace enough.  Yes, but to say ‘yours;’ that too meant so much.  Was she not indeed his?  And might not Totty suspect something in that ‘yours?’ You see that