The stamp was 'Charing Cross.' Small help derivable from that. 'She doesn't even say whether she'll write again,' Lydia murmured. Gilbert said presently: 'I shall write to Mr. Egremont, and tell him that we have heard.' 'Oh no!' Lydia protested, indignantly. 'Why should you tell him? You mustn't do that, Gilbert; I don't want him to know.' 'I promised him, Lyddy. Of course I shouldn't tell him where she was, if we knew, but I promised to let him hear if we had any news.' 'Then I don't see why you promised such a thing. It doesn't concern him.' Gilbert was troubled by this persistence. Lydia spoke with earnest disapproval. He could not do as he wished in defiance of her, yet he must certainly keep his promise to Egremont. 'You must remember,' he said gently, 'that he has reason to be anxious, as well as we.' 'What have we to do with that?' she replied, stubbornly. 'He has no right to think anything about her.' 'I mean, Lyddy, that he is troubled because of our trouble. All I want to do is to tell him that a letter has come from Thyrza, without address, and that she says she has found friends. Won't you consent to that?' After a short silence, Lydia replied: 'I won't say any more, Gilbert. As you like.' 'No, that's not enough. I must have your full agreement. It's either right or wrong to do it, and you must make up your mind clearly.' 'I shouldn't wonder if he knows,' she said briefly. 'He doesn't know. I shall not distrust him again. He would have told me.' 'Then you had better write.' 'You see that I ought to?' 'Yes, as you promised. But I can't see why you did.' This form of consent had to suffice, feminine as it was. But Gilbert knew Lydia well by this time, and no trifling fault could touch his deep affection and respect for her. She was very lonely in these days, Lydia. Of her own sex, she had now no friend, unless it were poor old Mrs. Grail. By changing her place of employment, she had lost even the satisfaction of being among familiar faces, and her new work-mates thought her dull. The jokes and gossip of each morning were things of the past; she plied her needle every moment of the working day, her thoughts fixed on one unchanging subject. Yes, for she could not really think even of Ackroyd; he was always, it is true, a presence in her mind, but there was no more pondering about him. Every stitch at the lining of a hat meant a fraction of a coin, and each day's result was to have earned something towards the money saved for Thyrza's assistance.