’Sir William thought you would like it about one o’clock.  And this is your room, please, Ma’am—­unless you would like anything different.  It’s Miss Farrell’s room.  She always likes the quiet side.  And I’ve put Miss Cookson next door.  I thought you’d wish to be together?’

Nelly entered a room furnished in white and pale green, luxurious in every detail, and hung with engravings after Watteau framed in white wood.  Through an open door shewed another room a little smaller, but equally dainty and fresh in all its appointments.  Bridget tripped briskly through the open door, looked around her and deposited her bag upon the bed.  Nelly meanwhile was being shewn the green-tiled and marble-floored bathroom attached to her room, Mrs. Simpson chattering on the various improvements and subtleties, which ‘Miss Cicely’ had lately commanded there.

‘But I’m sure you’ll be wanting your lunch, Ma’am,’ said the woman at last, venturing a compassionate glance at the pale young creature beside her.  ’It’ll be ready in five minutes.  I’ll tell Simpson he can serve it.’

She disappeared, and Nelly sank into a chair.  Why had they come to this place?  Her whole nature was in revolt.  The gaiety and luxury of the flat seemed to rise up and reproach her.  What was she doing in such surroundings?—­when George—­Oh, it was hateful—­hateful!  She thought with longing of the little bare room in the Rydal lodgings, where they had been happy together.

‘Well, are you ready?’ said Bridget, bustling in.  ’Do take off your things.  You look absolutely done up!’

Nelly rose slowly, but her face had flushed.

‘I can’t stay here, Bridget!’ she said with energy—­’I can’t!  I don’t know why we came.’

‘Because we were asked,’ said Bridget calmly.  ’We can stay, I think, for a couple of days, can’t we, till we find something else?  Where are your brushes?’

And she began vigorously unpacking for her sister, helplessly watched by Nelly.  They had just come from D——­ Street, where Nelly had been shewn various letters and telegrams; but nothing which promised any real further clue to George Sarratt’s fate.  He had been seen advancing—­seen wounded—­by at least a dozen men of the regiment, and a couple of officers, all of whom had now been communicated with.  But the wave of the counter-attack—­temporarily successful—­had rushed over the same ground before the British gains had been finally consolidated, and from that fierce and confused fighting there came no further word of George Sarratt.  It was supposed that in the final German retreat he had been swept up as a German prisoner.  He was not among the dead found and buried by an English search party on the following day—­so much had been definitely ascertained.