At the foot of the hill opposite stood a luxurious car, waiting evidently for the party which was now descending the hill towards it.  Bridget had a clear view of them, herself unseen behind Mrs. Weston’s muslin blinds.  A girl was in front, with a young man in khaki, a convalescent officer, to judge from his frail look and hollow eyes.  The girl was exactly like the fashion-plate in the morning’s paper.  She wore a very short skirt and Zouave jacket in grey cloth, high-heeled grey boots, with black tips and gaiters, a preposterous little hat perched on one side of a broad white forehead, across which the hair was parted like a boy’s, and an ostrich plume on the top of the hat, which nodded and fluttered so extravagantly that the face beneath almost escaped the spectator’s notice.  Yet it was on the whole a handsome face, audacious, like its owner’s costume, and with evident signs—­for Bridget Cookson’s sharp eyes—­of slight make-up.

Miss Cookson knew who she was.  She had seen her in the neighbouring town that morning, and had heard much gossip about her.  She was Miss Farrell, of Carton Hall, and that gentleman coming down the hill more slowly behind her was no doubt her brother Sir William.

Lame?  That of course was the reason why he was not in the army.  It was not very conspicuous, but still quite definite.  A stiff knee, Miss Cookson supposed—­an accident perhaps—­some time ago.  Lucky for him!—­on any reasonable view.  Bridget Cookson thought the war ‘odious,’ and gave no more attention to it than she could help.  It had lasted now nearly a year, and she was heartily sick of it.  It filled the papers with monotonous news which tired her attention—­which she did not really try to understand.  Now she supposed she would have to understand it.  For George, her new brother-in-law, was sure to talk a terrible amount of shop.

Sir William was very tall certainly, and good-looking.  He had a short pointed beard, a ruddy, sunburnt complexion, blue eyes and broad shoulders—­the common points of the well-born and landowning Englishman.  Bridget looked at him with a mixture of respect and hostility.  To be rich was to be so far interesting; still all such persons, belonging to a world of which she knew nothing, were in her eyes ‘swells,’ and gave themselves airs; a procedure on their part, which would be stopped when the middle and lower classes were powerful enough to put them in their place.  It was said, however, that this particular man was rather a remarkable specimen of his kind—­didn’t hunt—­didn’t preserve—­had trained as an artist, and even exhibited.  The shopwoman in B——­ from whom Miss Cookson derived her information about the Farrells, had described Sir William as ’queer’—­said everybody knew he was ‘queer.’  Nobody could get him to do any county work.  He hated Committees, and never went near them.  It was said he had been in love and the lady had died.  ’But if we all turned lazy for that kind of thing!’—­said