"What do you want?" said Mrs. Melrose, haughtily, determined to assert herself.
Thyrza came in slowly. She held a bunch of dripping Michaelmas daisies.
"Shall I get a glass for them? I thowt mebbe you'd like 'em in here."
Netta thanked her ungraciously. She remembered having seen the girl the night before, and Anastasia had mentioned her as the daughter of the Contadino.
Thyrza put the flowers in water, Netta watching her in silence; then going into the hall, she returned with a pair of white lace curtains.
"Shall I put 'em up? It 'ud mebbe be more cheerful."
Netta looked at them languidly.
"Where do they come from?"
"Mr. Tyson brought 'em from Pengarth. He thowt you might like 'em for the drawing-room."
Mrs. Melrose nodded, and Thyrza mounted a chair, and proceeded to put up the curtains, turning an observant eye now and then on the thin-faced lady sitting on the sofa, her long fingers clasped round her knees, and her eyes—so large and staring as to be rather ugly than beautiful in Thyrza's opinion—wandering absently round the room.