"I supposed it was right to show them in here to write it--wasn't it?"
she asked after a pause. "He said he knew you very well."

"Quite right, certainly."

"A very pleasant-spoken young gentleman, ain't he?" said Miss Bryant,
setting down a salt-cellar.

"Very," said Percival.

"Coming to play the High Church organ, he tells me," Lydia continued,
as if the instrument in question were somehow saturated with
ritualism.

"Yes--at St. Sylvester's."

Lydia looked at him, but he was gazing into the fire. She went out,
came back with a dish, shook her curl out of the way, and tried again:
"I suppose we're to thank you for recommending the lodgings--ain't we,
Mr. Thorne? I'm sure ma's much obliged to you. And I'm glad"--this
with a bashful glance--"that you felt you could. It seems as if we'd
given satisfaction."

"Certainly," said Percival. "But you mustn't thank me in this case,
Miss Bryant. I really didn't know what sort of lodgings my friend
wanted. But of course I'm glad Mr. Lisle is coming here."

"And ain't you glad _Miss_ Lisle is coming too, Mr. Thorne?" said
Lydia very archly. But she watched him, lynx-eyed.

He uttered no word of surprise, but he could not quite control the
muscles of his face, and a momentary light leapt into his eyes. "I
wasn't aware Miss Lisle _was_ coming," he said.

Lydia believed him. "That's true," she thought, "but you're precious
glad." And she added aloud, "Then the pleasure comes all the more
unexpected, don't it?" She looked sideways at Percival and lowered her
voice: "P'r'aps Miss Lisle meant a little surprise."

Percival returned her glance with a grave scorn which she hardly
understood. "My dinner is ready?" he said. "Thank you, Miss Bryant."
And Lydia flounced out of the room, half indignant, half sorrowful:
"_He_ didn't know--that's true. But _she_ knows what she's after, very
well. Don't tell me!" To Lydia, at this moment, it seemed as if every
girl must be seeking what she sought. "And I call it very bold of her
to come poking herself where she isn't wanted--running after a young
man. I'd be ashamed." A longing to scratch Miss Lisle's face was mixed
with a longing to have a good cry, for she was honestly suffering the
pangs of unrequited love. It is true that it was not for the first
time. The curl, the earrings, the songs, the _Language of Flowers_,
had done duty more than once before. But wounds may be painful without
being deep, although the fact of these former