crapey material.  The cap was a square of fine lawn, two corners of which were fastened under the chin with a brooch consisting of one large pearl.  The open throat showed a single string of fine pearls, and diamonds sparkled in the small ears.  Edging the cap on the temples and cheeks were little curls—­a la Henrietta Maria—­and the apron, also of the finest possible lawn, had a delicately embroidered edge.  The lips of the wearer had been artificially reddened, her eyebrows and eyelids had been skilfully pencilled, her cheeks rouged.  A more extraordinary specimen of the nursing sisterhood it would have been impossible to find.  Nevertheless the result was, beyond gainsaying, both amusing and picturesque.  The lad beside Nelly watched Miss Farrell with a broad grin.  On the other hand, a lady in a thin black dress and widow’s veil, who was sitting near Bridget, turned away after a few minutes’ observation of the hostess, and with a curling lip began to turn over a book lying on a table near her.  But whether the onlookers admired or disapproved, there could be no question that Miss Farrell held the field.

‘I am very glad to hear that Mrs. Sarratt has good news of her husband!’ said Captain Marsworth courteously to Bridget, hardly able to make himself heard however amid the din and laughter of the central group.  He too had been watching Cicely Farrell—­but with a wholly impassive countenance.  Bridget made some indifferent answer, and then eagerly asked who the visitors were.  She was told that they were officers from a neighbouring camp, including the general commanding the camp.  Sir William, said Captain Marsworth, had built the whole camp at his own expense, and on his own land, without waiting for any government contractor.

‘I suppose he is so enormously rich—­he can do anything he wants!’ said Bridget, her face kindling.  ’It must be grand never to think what you spend.’

Captain Marsworth was a trifle taken aback by the remark, as Sir William was barely a couple of yards away.

‘Yes, I daresay it’s convenient,’ he said, lightly.  ’And what do you find to do with yourself at Rydal?’

Bridget informed him briefly that she was correcting some proof-sheets for a friend, and would then have an index to make.

Captain Marsworth looked at her curiously.

‘May one ask what the book is?’

‘It’s something new about psychology,’ said Bridget, calmly.  ’It’s going to be a great deal talked about.  My friend’s awfully clever.’

’Ah!  Doesn’t she find it a little difficult to think about psychology just now?’

‘Why should she?  Somebody’s got to think about psychology,’ was the sharp reply.  ‘You can’t let everything go, because there’s a war.’

’I see!  You remind me of a man I know, who’s translating Dante.  He’s just over military age, and there he sits in a Devonshire valley, with a pile of books.  I happen to know a particular department in a public office that’s a bit hustled for want of men, and I suggested that he should lend a hand.  He said it was his business to keep culture going!’