’Mrs. Ormonde, you do understand!  Why should you pretend with me?  You know that I have been waiting—­waiting since Saturday.’

Thyrza spoke as if there were no mystery in her having attached a hope to that particular day.  All but distraught as she was, she made no distinction between the mere fact of her abiding love, which she could not conceive that Mrs. Ormonde was ignorant of, and the incident of her having surprised a secret.

‘Since Saturday?’ Mrs. Ormonde repeated.  ’What did you wait for on Saturday?’

She had a wretched suspicion.  From Egremont alone that information could have come to Thyrza.  Had he played detestably false, having by some means, at the height of his passion, communicated with the girl?  But the thought could only pass through her mind; it would not bear the light of reason for a moment.  Impossible for him to speak and act so during these past days, knowing that his dishonesty was certain of being discovered.  Impossible to attach such suspicion to him at all.

‘I expected to see him,’ Thyrza replied.  ’I knew he was to come in two years.  I have waited all the time; and now he has not come.  I heard——­’

She checked herself, and looked at the trellis at the back of the summer-house.  She understood now that it was needful to explain her knowledge.

‘You heard, Thyrza——?’

’That night that he was here.  I had walked to look at your house.  I was going home again when he passed me—­he didn’t see me—­and went into the garden.  I couldn’t go back at once; I had to sit down and rest.  It was on the other side of the leaves.’  She pointed.  ’I sat down there without knowing he would be here and I should hear him talking to you.  I heard all you said—­about the two years.  I have been waiting for him to come.’

Mrs. Ormonde could not reply; what words would express what she felt in learning this?  Thyrza’s eyes were still fixed upon her.

‘I want you to tell me where he is, Mrs. Ormonde.’

It was a summons that could not be avoided.

’Sit here, Thyrza.  I will tell you.  Sit down and let me speak to you.’

’No, no!  Tell me now!  Why not?  Why should I sit down?  What is there to say?’

The words were not weakly complaining, but of passionate insistence.  Thyrza believed that Mrs. Ormonde was preparing to elude her, was shaping excuses.  Her eyes watched the other’s every movement keenly, with fear and hostility.  She felt within reach of her desire, yet held back by this woman from attaining it.  Every instant of silence heightened the maddening tumult of her heart and brain.  She had suffered so terribly since Saturday.  It seemed as if her gentleness, her patience, were converted into their opposites, which now ruled her tyrannously.

‘Mr. Egremont is not in London,’ Mrs. Ormonde said at last.  She dreaded the result of any word she might say.  She was asking herself whether Walter ought not to be summoned back at once.  Was it too late for that?