‘It’s because I don’t understand you,’ said the other, in a subdued voice, her eyes on the ground.  ’You’re not open with me, Thyrza.  If it’s true that Mrs. Ormonde thinks in that way, why do you—­’

She broke off.

’I can’t talk about it!  It’s very hard to bear.  We shall never be what we were to each other, Thyrza.  Something’s come between us, and it always will be between us.  You must take your own way, dear.  Yes, I promise, and there’s an end of it.’

Thyrza sprang forward.

‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ she pleaded.  ’Why do you speak like this?  What are you thinking?’

’I think that Mr. Egremont ‘ll know where you are.’

‘Lyddy, he won’t know!  I give you my solemn word he won’t know.’

’Do you write to him?  Perhaps you meant that, when you said you hadn’t spoken to him?’

’I meant what I said, that I’ve neither written nor spoken, nor him to me.  He won’t know where I am; I shall have nothing to do with him in any way.  But of course if you refuse to believe me, what’s the use of saying it!’

There was a strange intonation in Thyrza’s voice as she added these words.  She looked and spoke with a certain pride, which Lydia had never before remarked in her.  Lydia mused a little, then said: 

’I don’t doubt the truth of your words, Thyrza.  I promise not to tell any one anything about you, and I’ll keep my promise.  But can’t you tell me what you’re going to do?’

’I don’t really know myself.  Mrs. Ormonde took me to her house the day before yesterday, and there was a lady there that I had to sing to.  I think she wanted to see what sort of a voice I had.  She played a sound on the piano, and asked me to sing the same, if I could.  She seemed satisfied, I thought, though she didn’t say anything.  Then Mrs. Ormonde brought me back in her carriage, but she didn’t say anything about the singing.  She’s very strange in some things, you know.’

Lydia asked presently: 

‘Then was it Mrs. Ormonde gave you this money?’

And she took the post-office order from her pocket.

‘What! you didn’t use it?’

‘No; I had enough of my own.  Please give it back.’

’Oh, Lyddy, how proud you are!  You never would take any help from anybody, and yet you went on so about grandad when he made bother.  Oh, how is poor grandad?’

‘The same as usual, dear.’

‘And you go to work every day just the same?  My poor Lyddy!’

The contention was over, and the tenderness came back.

’Speak something for me to Gilbert, Lyddy!  Say I—­what can I say?  I do feel for him; I can never forget his goodness as long as I live.  Tell him to forget all about me, How wrong I was ever to say that I loved him!’

Then again, in a whisper: 

‘What about Mr. Ackroyd, dearest?’

‘The same.  They’re not married yet.  I dare say they will be soon.’