’I must go to London to-night, Sir William.  Could you order something for me?’

‘I’ll take you to Windermere, Mrs. Sarratt,’ said Cicely before her brother could reply.  ‘The motor’s there now.’

‘No, no, Cicely, I’ll take Mrs. Sarratt,’ said Farrell impatiently.  ‘I’ll send back a car from Ambleside, for you and Marsworth.’

‘You forget Sir George Whitehead,’ said Cicely quietly.  ’I’ll do everything.’

Sir George Whitehead of the A.M.S.C. was expected at Carton that evening on a visit of inspection to the hospital.  Farrell, as Commandant, could not possibly be absent.  He acknowledged the fact by a gesture of annoyance.  Cicely immediately took things in charge.

A whirl of packing and departure followed.  By the time she and her charges left for Windermere, Cicely’s hat and high heels had been entirely blotted out by a quite extraordinary display on her part of both thoughtfulness and efficiency.  Marsworth had seen the same transformation before, but never so markedly.  He tried several times to make his peace with her; but she held aloof, giving him once or twice an odd look out of her long almond-shaped eyes.

‘Good-bye, and good luck!’ said Farrell to Nelly, through the car window; and as she held out her hand, he stooped and kissed it with a gulp in his throat.  Her deathly pallor and a grey veil thrown back and tied under her small chin gave her a ghostly loveliness which stamped itself on his recollection.

’I am going up to town myself to-morrow.  I shall come and see if I can do anything for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nelly mechanically.  ’Oh yes, I shall have thought of many things by then.  Good-bye.’

Marsworth and Farrell were left to watch the disappearance of the car along the moonlit road.

‘Poor little soul!’ said Farrell—­’poor little soul!’ He walked on along the road, his eyes on the ground.  Marsworth offered him a cigar, and they smoked in silence.

‘What’ll the next message be?’ said Farrell, after a little while.  ‘"Reported wounded and missing—­now reported killed”?  Most probable!’

Marsworth assented sadly.

CHAPTER VIII

It was a pale September day.  In the country, among English woods and heaths the sun was still strong, and trees and bracken, withered heath, and reddening berries, burned and sparkled beneath it.  But in the dingy bedroom of a dingy Bloomsbury hotel, with a film of fog over everything outside, there was no sun to be seen; the plane trees beyond the windows were nearly leafless; and the dead leaves scudding and whirling along the dusty, airless streets, under a light wind, gave the last dreary touch to the scene that Nelly Sarratt was looking at.  She was standing at a window, listlessly staring at some houses opposite, and the unlovely strip of garden which lay between her and the houses.  Bridget Cookson was sitting at a table a little way behind her, mending some gloves.