Then Mrs. Grail returned.  She sat down near Thyrza, and, after a little more of her pleasant talk, said, turning to her son

‘Could you find something to read us.  Gilbert?’

He thought for a moment, then reached down a book of biographies, writing of a popular colour, not above Thyrza’s understanding.  It contained a life of Sir Thomas More, or rather a pleasant story founded upon his life, with much about his daughter Margaret.

‘Yes, that’ll do nicely,’ was Mrs. Grail’s opinion.

He began with a word or two of explanation to Thyrza, then entered upon the narrative.  As soon as the proposal was made, Thyrza’s face had lighted up with pleasure; she listened intently, leaning a little forward in her chair, her hands folded together.  Gilbert, if he raised his eyes from the page, did not look at her.  Mrs. Grail interrupted once or twice with a question or a comment.  The reading was good; Gilbert’s voice gave life to description and conversation, and supplied an interest even where the writer was in danger of growing dull.

When the end was reached, Thyrza recovered herself with the sigh which follows strained attention.  But she was not in a mood to begin conversation again; her mind had got something to work upon, it would keep her awake far into the night with a succession of half-realised pictures.  What a world was that of which a glimpse had been given her!  Here, indeed, was something remote from her tedious life.  Her brain was full of vague glories, of the figures of kings and queens, of courtiers and fair ladies, of things nobly said and done; and her heart throbbed with indignation at wrongs greater than any she had ever imagined.  When it had all happened she knew not; surely very long ago!  But the names she knew, Chelsea, Lambeth, the Tower—­these gave a curiously fantastic reality to the fairy tale.  And one thing she saw with uttermost distinctness:  that boat going down the stream of Thames, and the dear, dreadful head dropped into it from the arch above.  She would go and stand on the bridge and think of it.

Ah, she must tell Lyddy all that!  Better still, she must read it to her.  She found courage to say: 

’Could you spare that book, Mr. Grail?  Could you lend it me for a day or two?  I’d be very careful with it.’

‘I shall be very glad to lend it you,’ Gilbert answered.  His voice changed somehow from that in which he usually spoke.

She received it from him and held it on her lap with both hands.  She would not look into it till alone in her room; and, having secured it, she did not wish to stay longer.

‘Going already?’ Mrs. Grail said, seeing her rise.

’Lyddy ‘ll be back very soon,’ was the reply.  ’I think I’d better go now.’

She shook hands with both of them, and they heard her run up the thin-carpeted stairs.

Mother and son sat in silence for some minutes.  Gilbert had taken another book, and seemed to be absorbed in it; Mrs. Grail had a face of meditation.  Occasionally she looked upwards, as though on the track of some memory which she strove to make clear.