The friendly volunteer in D——­ Street—­whose name appeared to be Miss Eustace—­had tried to insist with Nelly that on the whole, and so far, the news collected was not discouraging.  At least there was no verification of death.  And for the rest, there were always the letters from Geneva to wait for.  ‘One must be patient,’ Miss Eustace had said finally.  ‘These things take so long!  But everybody’s doing their best.’  And she had grasped Nelly’s cold hands in hers, long and pityingly.  Her own fine aquiline face seemed to have grown thinner and more strained even since Nelly had known it.  She often worked in the office, she said, up to midnight.

All these recollections and passing visualisations of words and faces, drawn from those busy rooms a few streets off, in which not only George Sarratt’s fate, but her own, as it often seemed to Nelly, were being slowly and inexorably decided, passed endlessly through her brain, as she mechanically took off her things, and brushed her hair.

Presently she was following Bridget across the hall to the drawing-room.  Bridget seemed already to know all about the flat.  ’The dining-room opens out of the drawing-room.  It’s all Japanese,’ she said complaisantly, turning back to her sister.  ’Isn’t it jolly?  Miss Farrell furnished it.  Sir William let her have it all her own way.’

Nelly looked vaguely round the drawing-room, which had a blue Persian carpet, pale purple walls, hung with Japanese colour prints, a few chairs, one comfortable sofa, a couple of Japanese cabinets, and pots of Japanese lilies in the corners.  It was a room not meant for living in.  There was not a book in it anywhere.  It looked exactly what it was—­a perching-place for rich people, who liked their own ways, and could not be bored with hotels.

The dining-room was equally bare, costly, and effective.  Its only ornament was a Chinese Buddha, a great terra-cotta, marvellously alive, which had been looted from some Royal tomb, and now sat serenely out of place, looking over the dainty luncheon-table to the square outside, and wrapt in dreams older than Christianity.

The flat was nominally lent to ‘Mrs. Sarratt,’ but Bridget was managing everything, and had never felt so much in her element in her life.  She sat at the head of the table, helped Nelly, gave all the orders, and was extraordinarily brisk and cheerful.

Nelly scarcely touched anything, and Mrs. Simpson who waited was much concerned.

‘Perhaps you’d tell Simpson anything you could fancy, Madam,’ she said anxiously in Nelly’s ear, as she handed the fruit.  Nelly must needs smile when anyone spoke kindly to her.  She smiled now, though very wearily.

‘Why, it’s all beautiful, thank you.  But I’m not hungry.’

‘We’ll have coffee in the drawing-room, please, Mrs. Simpson,’ said Bridget rising—­a tall masterful figure, in a black silk dress, which she kept for best occasions.  ‘Now Nelly, you must rest.’