In him she could imagine no change.  His face was as present to her as if she had seen him an hour ago, and she never asked herself whether two years would have made any alteration even in his appearance.  His voice was the voice in which he had spoken to Mrs. Ormonde, when he uttered the golden words that said he loved her.  He would speak now in the same way, with those inflections which she knew so well, dearer music than any she had learnt or could learn.  In the beginning she had known a few fears; time then was so long—­ so long before her; but what had she to do with fear now?  Was be not Walter Egremont, the man of all men—­the good, wise, steadfast?  She had heard much praise of him in the old days, but never praise enough.  No one knew him well enough; no one the half as well as she did.  Should she not know him who dwelt in her heart?

His life had always been strange to her, but by ceaseless imagining she had pictured it to herself so completely that she believed she could follow him day by day.  Gilbert Grail had told her that he dwelt in a room full of books, near the British Museum, which also was full of books.  Most of his time was spent in study; she understood what that meant.  He did not give lectures now; that had come miserably to an end.  He had a few friends, one or two men like himself, who thought and talked of high and wonderful things, and one or two ladies, of course—­Mrs. Ormonde, and, perhaps, Miss Newthorpe.  But probably Miss Newthorpe was married now.  And, indeed, he did not care much to talk with ladies.  He would go occasionally out of London, as he used to; perhaps would go abroad.  If he crossed the sea, he must think much of her, for the sea always brings thoughts of those one loves.  And so he lived, only wishing for the time to go by.

Lydia’s visit was on Sunday.  She was to come immediately after dinner; and, perhaps, though it remained uncertain—­for she had not ventured to speak of it in her letter—­they would have tea with the Emersons.

Concerning Thyrza’s sister Mrs. Emerson had much curiosity, but she was not ill-bred.  She made no attempt to get a glimpse of Lydia as the latter went upstairs to Thyrza’s room.  Thyrza stood just within her open door.  She had put a flower in her hair for the welcoming.

‘So this is where you have lived all this time,’ Lydia said, looking about the room.  ’How pretty it is, Thyrza!  But of course it’s a lady’s room.’

The other stood with her hands together before her, and, a little timidly, said: 

’Do I look like a lady?  Suppose you didn’t know me, Lyddy, should you think I was a lady?’

‘Of course I should,’ her sister answered, though in a way which showed that she did not care to dwell on the subject.

Still, Thyrza laughed with pleasure.

‘And do you think I love my sister a bit the less?’

‘Of course I don’t.’

Lydia was not quite at her ease.