of women for war-work which was vaguely talked of, Bridget passionately felt that she would go to prison rather than submit to such a thing.  For the war said nothing whatever to her heart or conscience.  All the great tragic side of it—­the side of death and wounds and tears—­of high justice and ideal aims—­she put away from her, as she always had put away such things, in peace.  They did not concern her personally.  Why make trouble for oneself?

And yet here was a sister whose husband was ’wounded and missing’—­probably, as Bridget firmly believed, already dead.  And the meaning of that fact—­that possibility—­was writ so large on Nelly’s physical aspect, on Nelly’s ways and plans, that there was really no getting away from it.  Also—­there were other people to be considered.  Bridget did not at all want to offend or alienate Sir William Farrell—­now less than ever.  And she was quite aware that he would think badly of her, if he suspected she was not doing her best for Nelly.

The September light waned.  The room grew so dark that Bridget turned on an electric light beside her, and by the help of it stole a long look at Nelly, who was still standing by the window.  Would grieving—­would the loss of George—­take Nelly’s prettiness away?  She had certainly lost flesh during the preceding weeks and days.  Her little chin was very sharp, as Bridget saw it against the window, and her hair seemed to have parted with its waves and curls, and to be hanging limp about her ears.  Bridget felt a pang of annoyance that anything should spoil Nelly’s good looks.  It was altogether unnecessary and absurd.

Presently Nelly moved back towards her sister.

‘I don’t know how I shall get through the next fortnight,’ she said in a low voice.  ‘I wonder what we had better do?’

‘Well, we can’t stay here,’ said Bridget sharply.  ’It’s too expensive, though it is such a poky hole.  We can find a lodging, I suppose, and feed ourselves.  Unless of course we went back to Westmorland.  Why can’t you?  They can always telegraph.’

Nelly flushed.  Her hand lying on the back of Bridget’s chair shook.

‘And if George sent for me,’ she said, in the same low, strained voice, ’it would take eight hours longer to get to him than it would from here.’

Bridget said nothing.  In her heart of hearts she felt perfectly certain that George never would send.  She rose and put down her needlework.

’I must go and post a letter downstairs.  I’ll ask the woman in the office if she knows anything about lodgings.’

Nelly went back to her post by the window.  Her mind was bruised between two conflicting feelings—­a dumb longing for someone to caress and comfort her, someone who would meet her pain with a bearing less hard and wooden than Bridget’s—­and at the same time, a passionate shrinking from the bare idea of comfort and sympathy, as something not to be endured.  She had had a kind letter from Sir William Farrell that morning.  He had spoken of being soon in London.  But she did not know that she could bear to see him—­unless he could help—­get something done!