Despair stirred in
her--the physical nostalgia of the south. A happy heart might have
silenced the craving nerves; but hers was far from happy.
The door opened. A head was thrust in--the head of a fair-haired girl.
There was a pause.
"What do you want?" said Mrs. Melrose, haughtily, determined to assert
herself.
Thyrza came in slowly. She held a bunch of dripping Michaelmas daisies.
"Shall I get a glass for them? I thowt mebbe you'd like 'em in here."
Netta thanked her ungraciously. She remembered having seen the girl the
night before, and Anastasia had mentioned her as the daughter of the
_Contadino_.
Thyrza put the flowers in water, Netta watching her in silence; then
going into the hall, she returned with a pair of white lace curtains.
"Shall I put 'em up? It 'ud mebbe be more cheerful."
Netta looked at them languidly.
"Where do they come from?"
"Mr. Tyson brought 'em from Pengarth. He thowt you might like 'em for the
drawing-room."
Mrs. Melrose nodded, and Thyrza mounted a chair, and proceeded to put up
the curtains, turning an observant eye now and then on the thin-faced
lady sitting on the sofa, her long fingers clasped round her knees, and
her eyes--so large and staring as to be rather ugly than beautiful in
Thyrza's opinion--wandering absently round the room.
"It's a clashy day," Thyrza ventured at last.
"It's a dreadful day," said Mrs. Melrose sharply. "Does it always rain
like this?"
"Well, it _do_ rain," was Thyrza's cautious reply.
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