Nelly rose, and tied her veil on closely.  Mrs. Dowson brought her a thick coat, which had been part of her trousseau, and wrapped her in it.

‘You had better take your grey shawl,’ said Bridget.

‘I have it here, Miss,’ said Mrs. Dowson, producing it.  ’I’ll put it over her in the motor.’

She disappeared to open the door to Sir William’s knock.

Nelly turned to her sister.

‘Good-bye, Bridget.’

Bridget flamed out.

’And you don’t mean to write to me?  You mean to carry out this absurd plan of separation!’

‘I don’t know what I shall do—­till I have seen George,’ said Nelly steadily.  ’He’ll settle for me.  Only you and I are not sisters any more.’

Bridget shrugged her shoulders, with some angry remark about ’theatrical nonsense.’  Nelly went out into the passage, threw her arms about Mrs. Dowson’s neck, for a moment, and then hurried out towards the car.  It stood there in the falling snow, its bright lights blazing on the bit of Westmorland wall opposite, and the overhanging oaks, still heavy with dead leaf.  Farrell was standing at the door, holding a fur rug.  He and Mrs. Dowson tucked it in round Nelly’s small cloaked figure.

Then without a word, Farrell shut the door of the car, and took the seat beside the driver.  In another minute Bridget was watching the lights of the lamps rushing along the sides of the lane, till at a sharp bend of the road it disappeared.

There was a break presently in the snow-fall, and as they reached the shores of Windermere, Nelly was aware of struggling gleams of moonlight on steely water.  The anguish in her soul almost resented the break in the darkness.  She was going to George; but George was dying, and while he had been lying there in his lonely suffering, she had been forgetting him, and betraying him.  The recollection of Farrell’s embrace overwhelmed her with a crushing sense of guilt.  George indeed should never know.  But that made no difference to her own misery.

The miles flew by.  She began to think of her journey, to realise her helplessness and inexperience in the practical things of life.  She must get her passport, and some money.  Who would advise her, and tell her how to get to France under war conditions?  Would she be allowed to go by the short sea passage?  For that she knew a special permit was necessary.  Could she get it at once, or would she be kept waiting in town?  The notion of having to wait one unnecessary hour tortured her.  Then her thoughts fastened on Miss Eustace of the Enquiry Office, who had written her the letter which had arrived simultaneously with Dr. Howson’s telegram.  ’Let me know if I can be of any use to you, for your journey.  If there is anything you want to know that we can help you in, you had better come straight to this office.’

Yes, that she would do.  But the train arrived in London at 7 A.M.  And she could not possibly see Miss Eustace before ten or eleven.  She must just sit in the waiting-room till it was time.  And she must get some money.  She had her cheque-book and would ask Sir William to tell her how to get a cheque cashed in London.  She was ashamed of her own ignorance in these small practical matters.