Bridget pricked up her ears and nodded triumphantly towards Nelly.

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Cicely,’ said Farrell.  ’Why, the Duchess has planted the whole rose-garden with potatoes, and sold all her Pekinese.’

’Only because she was tired of the Pekinese, and has so many flowers she doesn’t know what to do with them!  On the other hand the Duke wants parlour-maids; and whenever he says so, Evelyn draws all the blinds down and goes to bed.  And that annoys him so much that he gives in!  Don’t you talk, Willy.  The Duchess always gets wound you!’

‘I don’t care twopence about her,’ said Farrell, rather savagely.  ’What does she matter?’ Then he moved towards Nelly, whose absent look and drooping attitude he had been observing for some minutes.

’Shan’t we go down to the Lake, Mrs. Sarratt?  It seems really a fine evening at last, and there won’t be so many more.  Let me carry some shawls.  Marsworth, lend a hand.’

Soon they were all scattered along the edge of the Lake.  Hester Martin had relieved Marsworth of Bridget; Farrell had found a dry rock, and spread a shawl upon it for Nelly’s benefit.  Marsworth and Cicely had no choice but to pair; and she, with a grey hat and plume half a yard high, preposterously short skirts, and high-heeled boots buttoned to the knee, condescended to stroll beside him, watching his grave embarrassed look with an air of detachment as dramatically complete as she could make it.

* * * * *

‘You look awfully tired!’ said Farrell to his companion, eyeing her with most sincere concern.  ‘I wonder what you’ve been doing to yourself.’

‘I’m all right,’ she said with emphasis.  ’Indeed I’m all right.  You said you’d sent for the papers?’

’The motor will wait for them at Windermere.  But I don’t think there’ll be much more to hear.  I’m afraid we’ve shot our bolt.’

She clasped her hands listlessly on her knee, and said nothing.

‘Are you quite sure Sarratt has been in it?’ he asked her.

‘Oh, yes, I’m sure.’

There was a dull conviction in her voice.  She began to pluck at the grass beside her, while her dark contracted eyes swept the Lake in front of her—­seeing nothing.

’Good God!’—­thought Farrell—­’Are they all—­all the women—­suffering like this?’

‘You’ll get a telegram from him to-morrow, I’m certain you will!’ he said, with eager kindness.  ’Try and look forward to it.  You know the good chances are five to one.’

‘Not for a lieutenant,’ she said, under her breath.  ’They have to lead their men.  They can’t think of their own lives.’

There was silence a little.  Then Farrell said—­floundering, ’He’d want you to bear up!’

‘I am bearing up!’ she said quickly, a little resentfully.

‘Yes, indeed you are!’ He touched her arm a moment caressingly, as though in apology.  It was natural to his emotional temperament to express itself so—­through physical gesture.  But Nelly disliked the touch.