Nelly took her seat in the landaulette, with Bridget beside her.  Milly and Mrs. Weston admiringly watched their departure from the doorway of the lodgings, and they were soon speeding towards Grasmere and Dunmail Raise.  Nelly’s fresh white dress, aided by the blue coat and shady hat which George had thought so ravishing, became her well; and she was girlishly and happily aware of it.  Her spirits were high, for there in the little handbag on her wrist lay George’s last letter, received that morning, short and hurried, written just to catch the post, on his arrival at the rest camp, thirty miles behind the line.  Heart-ache and fear, if every now and then their black wings brushed her, and far within, a nerve quivered, were mostly quite forgotten.  Youth, the joy of being loved, the joy of mere living, reclaimed her.

Bridget beside her, in a dark blue cotton, with a very fashionable hat, looked more than her thirty years, and might almost have been taken for Nelly’s mother.  She sat erect, her thin straight shoulders carrying her powerful head and determined face; and she noticed many things that quite escaped her sister:  the luxury of the motor for instance; the details of the Farrell livery worn by the two discharged soldiers who sat in front as chauffeur and footman; and the evident fact that while small folk must go without servants, the rich seemed to have no difficulty in getting as many as they wanted.

‘I wonder what this motor cost?’ she said presently in a speculative tone, as they sped past the turn to Grasmere church and began to ascend the pass leading to Keswick.

‘Well, we know—­about—­don’t we?’ said Nelly vaguely.  And she guessed a sum, at which Bridget looked contemptuous.

’More than that, my dear!  However of course it doesn’t matter to them.’

’Don’t you think people look at us sometimes, as though we were doing something wrong?’ said Nelly uneasily.  They had just passed two old labourers—­fine patriarchal fellows who had paused a moment to gaze at the motor and the two ladies.  ’I suppose it’s because—­because we look so smart.’

‘Well, why shouldn’t we?’

‘Because it’s war-time I suppose,’ said Nelly slowly—­’and perhaps their sons are fighting—­’

‘We’re not fighting!’

‘No—­but—.’  With a slight frown, Nelly tried to express herself.  ’It looks as if we were just living as usual, while—­Oh, you know, Bridget, what people think!—­how everybody’s trying not to spend money on themselves.’

‘Are they?’ Bridget laughed aloud.  ’Look at all the dress advertisements in the papers.  Why, yesterday, when I was having tea with those people at Windermere, there was a man there telling lots of interesting things.  He said he knew some great merchants in the city, who had spent thousands and thousands on furs—­expensive furs—­the summer before the war.  And they thought they’d all have been left on their hands, that they’d have lost heavily.  And instead of that they sold them all, and made a real big profit!’