'Do you feel ill, dear?' Lydia asked, anxiously.
'Not well, Lyddy. Don't get cross with me. I'll go to bed directly.'
She walked again the length of the room, then began to hum an air. It was the first song of the concert. She took the crumpled programme from her pocket, and glanced over it. Lydia moved impatiently. Thyrza put the programme down on the table, and began to loosen her dress.
'Are you glad you went, Lyddy?' she asked, in a tired voice.
'I shan't be glad we any of us went if it's going to make you ill, Thyrza.'
'I shall be all right to-morrow, I dare say. I wonder whether Mr. Egremont often goes to concerts?'
'Very likely. He can afford it.'
'I mustn't go again for a long time.'
She had seated herself on the bed and was undoing the braid of her hair. She spoke the last words thoughtfully. In a minute or two the light was out.
Lydia soon fell asleep. In the very early morning a movement of her sister's awoke her. She found that Thyrza was sitting up in the bed.