shop.

Paradise Street runs at right angles into Lambeth Walk. As Lydia
approached this point, she saw that Ackroyd stood there, apparently
waiting for her. He was turning over the leaves of one of his books,
but kept glancing towards her as she drew near. He wished to speak,
and she stopped.

'Do you think,' he said, with diffidence, 'that your sister would
come out to-morrow after tea?'

Lydia kept her eyes down.

'I don't know, Mr. Ackroyd,' she answered. 'I'll ask her; I don t
think she's going anywhere.'

'It won't be like last Sunday?'

'She really didn't feel well. And I can't promise, you know Mr.
Ackroyd.'

She met his eyes for an instant, then looked along the street There
was a faint smile on her lips, with just a suspicion of some
trouble.

'But you _will_ ask her?'

'Yes, I will.'

She added in a lower voice, and with constraint: