The visitor held out a telegram, which Nelly took in some bewilderment.  It fluttered her to be so much thought for by a stranger—­and a stranger moreover who seemed but to wave his wand and things were done.  But she thanked him heartily.

‘Won’t you come in, Sir William?’ she asked him, shyly.  ’My husband will be here directly.’

It pleased him that she had found out who he was.  He protested that he mustn’t stay a moment, but all the same he came in, and stood with his hands in his pockets looking at the view.  He seemed to Nelly to fill the little sitting-room.  Not that he was stout.  There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him anywhere.  But he stood at least six foot four in his boots; his shoulders were broad in proportion; and his head, with its strong curly hair of a light golden brown, which was repeated in his short beard, carried itself with the unconscious ease of one who has never known anything but the upper seats of life.  His features were handsome, except for a broad irregular mouth, and his blue eyes were kind and lazily humorous.

‘There’s nothing better than that lake,’ he said, motioning towards it, with his hand, as though he followed the outlines of the hills.  ’But I never try to draw it.  I leave that to the fellows who think they can!  I’m afraid your permit’s only for a week, Mrs. Sarratt.  The boat, I find, will be wanted after that.’

’Oh, but my husband will be gone in a week—­less than a week.  I couldn’t row myself!’ said Nelly, smiling.

But Sir William thought the smile trembled a little, and he felt very sorry for the small, pretty creature.

‘You will be staying on here after your husband goes?’

‘Oh yes.  My sister will be with me.  We know the Lakes very well.’

‘Staying through the summer, I suppose?’ ’I shan’t want to move—­if the war goes on.  We haven’t any home of our own—­yet.’

She had seated herself, and spoke with the self-possession which belongs to those who know themselves fair to look upon.  But there seemed to be no coquetry about her—­no consciousness of a male to be attracted.  All her ways were very gentle and childish, and in her white dress she made the same impression on Farrell as she had on Bridget, of extreme—­absurd—­youthfulness.  He guessed her age about nineteen, perhaps younger.

‘I’m afraid the war will go on,’ he said, kindly.  ’We are only now just finding out our deficiencies.’

Nelly sighed.

’I know—­it’s awful how we want guns and shells!  My husband says it makes him savage to see how we lose men for want of them. Why are we so short?  Whose fault is it?’

A spot of angry colour had risen in her cheek.  It was the dove defending her mate.  The change was lovely, and Farrell, with his artist’s eye, watched it eagerly.  But he shook his head.