He sat beside her in the garden, after Howson’s departure, reading to her, by the lingering light, the poems of a great friend of his who had been killed at Gallipoli.  Nelly was knitting, but her needles were often laid upon her knee, while she listened with all her mind, and sometimes with tears in her eyes, that were hidden by the softly dropping dusk.  She said little, but what she did say came now from a greatly intensified inner life, and a sharpened intelligence; while all the time, the charm that belonged to her physical self, her voice, her movements, was at work on Farrell, so that he felt his hour with her a delight after his hard day’s work.  And she too rested in his presence, and his friendship.  It was not possible now for her to rebuff him, to refuse his care.  She had tried, tried honestly, as Cicely saw, to live independently—­to ‘endure hardness.’  And the attempt had broken down.  The strange, protesting feeling, too, that she was doing some wrong to George by accepting it was passing away.  She was George’s, she would always be his, to her dying day; but to live without being loved, to tear herself from those who wished to love her—­for that she had proved too weak.  She knew it, and was not unconscious of a certain moral defeat; as she looked out upon all the strenuous and splendid things that women were doing in the war.

* * * * *

Farrell and Cicely sped homeward through a night that was all but day.  Cicely scarcely spoke; she was thinking of Marsworth.  Farrell had still in his veins the sweetness of Nelly’s presence.  But there were other thoughts too in his mind, the natural thoughts of an Englishman at war.  Once, over their heads, through the luminous northern sky, there passed an aeroplane flying south-west high above the fells.  Was it coming from the North Sea, from the neighbourhood of that invincible Fleet, on which all hung, by which all was sustained?  He thought of the great ships, and the men commanding them, as greyhounds straining in the leash.  What touch of fate would let them loose at last?

The Carton hospital was now full of men fresh from the front.  The casualties were endless.  A thousand a night often along the French front—­and yet no real advance.  The far-flung battle was practically at a stand-still.  And beyond, the chaos in the Balkans, the Serbian debacle!  No—­the world was full of lamentation, mourning and woe; and who could tell how Armageddon would turn?  His quick mind travelled through all the alternative possibilities ahead, on fire for his country.  But always, after each digression through the problems of the war, thought came back to the cottage at Rydal, and Nelly on the lawn, her white throat emerging from the thin black dress, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes turned to him as he read.

And all the time it was just conceivable that Sarratt might still be discovered.  At that thought, the summer night darkened.