'Thyrza!' whispered Gilbert, when the musicians were in their places, and the preliminary twanging and screeching of instruments under correction had begun. 'There's Mr. Egremont!'
'Is he? Where?'
'Do you see that tall lady in the red cloak? No, more to the left; there's a bald man on the other side of him.'
'Yes, I see him.'
She waited a moment, then repeated the news to Lydia, with singular indifference. Then she began to gaze in quite other directions. The instrumental uproar continued.
'Oh dear!' said Lydia, with a wry face. I'm sure that kind of music won't do your head any good. Is it still better?'
'I think so—yes, yes.'
'Grandad doesn't take anything like that time to tune his fiddle,' the other whispered, conscious that she was daring in her criticism.
Thyrza, on an impulse, conveyed the remark to Gilbert, who laughed silently.
The concert began. Thyrza's eyes had again fixed themselves on that point down below, and during the first piece they did not once move. Her breathing was quick. The heart in her bosom seemed to swell, as always when some great emotion possessed her, and with difficulty she kept her vision unclouded. Lydia often looked at her, so did Gilbert; she was unconscious of it.