The other shook her head, sadly.
They left the house and turned towards Kennington Road. Before Lydia had gone half a dozen steps she saw that Ackroyd was waiting at the end of the street. She felt a pang of self-reproach; it was wrong of her to have allowed him to stand in miserable uncertainty all this time; she ought to have gone out at six o'clock. In a low voice she said to her companion:
'There's Mr. Ackroyd. I want just to speak a word to him. If you'll go on when we get up, I'll soon overtake you.'
Mary acquiesced in silence. Lydia, approaching, saw disappointment on the young man's face. He raised his hat to her—an unwonted attention in these parts—and she gave him her hand.
'I'm going to chapel,' she said playfully.
He had a sudden hope.
'Then your sister'll come out?'
'No, Mr. Ackroyd; she can't to-night. She's having tea with Mrs. Grail.'
He looked down the street. Lydia was impelled to say earnestly:
'Some time, perhaps! Thyrza is very young yet, Mr. Ackroyd. She thinks of such different things.'