'I had rather stay here.'
She kept her place by the window through the whole day, as she had sat in her own room in London. She could not have borne to see the waves white on the beach and the blue horizon; the sea that she had loved so, that she had called her friend, would break her heart with its song of memories. She must not think of anything now, only, if it might be, put her soul to sleep and let the sobbing waters of oblivion bear it onwards through the desolate hours. She had no pain; her faculties were numbed; her will had spent itself.
Mrs. Ormonde brought her meals, speaking only a word of gentleness. In the evening Thyrza said to her:
'Will you stay a few minutes?'
She sat down and took Thyrza's hand. The latter continued:
'I shall be glad if they would give me the sewing to do again, and the work at the Home. Do you think they will, Mrs. Ormonde?'
'Don't you wish to go on with your lessons?'
'No. I can't stay there if I don't earn enough to pay for everything. I shall try to keep on with the singing.'
It was perhaps wiser to yield every point for the present.
'It shall be as you wish, Thyrza,' Mrs. Ormonde replied.