She was at that moment bowing to him, as she followed her husband across the road.  A thought occurred to Sir William, and he pursued her.

‘I wonder—­’ he said diffidently—­’if you care for boating—­if you would like to boat on the lake—­’

‘Oh, but it isn’t allowed!’ She turned on him a pair of astonished eyes.

’Not in general.  Ah, I see you know these parts already.  But I happen to know the owner of the boathouse.  Shall I get you leave?’

‘Oh, that would be delightful!’ she said, her face kindling with a child’s joyousness.  ’That is kind of you!  Our name is Sarratt—­my husband is Lieutenant Sarratt.’

—­’Of the 21st Lanchesters?  All right—­I’ll see to it!’

And he ran back to his car, while the young people disappeared into the little entrance hall of the lodging-house, and the door shut upon them.

Miss Farrell received her brother with gibes.  Trust William for finding out a beauty!  Who were they?

Farrell handed on his information as the car sped along the Keswick road.

‘Going back in a week, is he?’ said the convalescent officer beside him.  Then, bitterly—­’lucky dog!’

Farrell looked at the speaker kindly.

‘What—­with a wife to leave?’

The boy, for he was little more, shrugged his shoulders.  At that moment he knew no passion but the passion for the regiment and his men, to whom he couldn’t get back, because his ‘beastly constitution’ wouldn’t let him recover as quickly as other men did.  What did women matter?—­when the ‘push’ might be on, any day.

Cicely Farrell continued to chaff her brother, who took it placidly—­fortified by a big cigar.

’And if she’d been plain, Willy, you’d never have so much as known she was there!  Did you tell her you haunted these parts?’

He shook his head.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the bride and bridegroom had been met on the lodging-house stairs by the bride’s sister, who allowed herself to be kissed by the bridegroom, and hugged by the bride.  Her lack of effusion, however, made little impression on the newcomers.  They were in that state of happiness which transfigures everything round it; they were delighted with the smallest things; with the little lodging-house sitting room, its windows open to the lake and river; with its muslin curtains, very clean and white, its duster-rose too, just outside the window; with Mrs. Weston, who in her friendly flurry had greeted the bride as ‘Miss Nelly,’ and was bustling to get the tea; even, indeed, with Bridget Cookson’s few casual attentions to them.  Mrs. Sarratt thought it ‘dear’ of Bridget to have come to meet them, and ordered tea for them, and put those delicious roses in her room—­

‘I didn’t!’ said Bridget, drily.  ’That was Milly.  It didn’t occur to me.’