Nelly let herself be put on the sofa in the drawing-room, and Bridget—­after praising the coffee, the softness of the chairs, the beauty of the Japanese lilies, and much speculation on the value of the Persian carpet which, she finally decided, was old and priceless—­announced that she was going for a walk.

’Why don’t you come too, Nelly?  Come and look at the shops.  You shouldn’t mope all day long.  If they do send for you to nurse George, you won’t have the strength of a cat.’

But Nelly had shrunk into herself.  She said she would stay in and write a letter to Hester Martin.  Presently she was left alone.  Mrs. Simpson had cleared away, and shut all the doors between the sitting-rooms and the kitchen.  Inside the flat nothing was to be heard but the clock ticking on the drawing-room mantelpiece.  Outside, there were intermittent noises and rattles from the traffic in the square, and beyond that again the muffled insistent murmur which seemed to Nelly this afternoon—­in her utter loneliness—­the most desolate sound she had ever heard.  The day had turned to rain and darkness, and the rapid closing of the October afternoon prophesied winter.  Nelly could not rouse herself to write the letter to Miss Martin.  She lay prone in a corner of the sofa, dreaming, as she had done all her life; save that the faculty—­of setting in motion at will a stream of vivid and connected images—­which had always been one of her chief pleasures, was now an obsession and a torment.  How often, in her wakeful nights at Rydal, had she lived over again every moment in the walk to Blea Tarn, till at last, gathered once more on George’s knees, and nestling to his breast, she had fallen asleep—­comforted.

She went through it all, once more, in this strange room, as the darkness closed; only the vision ended now, not in a tender thrill—­half conscious, fading into sleep—­of remembered joy, but in an anguish of sobbing, the misery of the frail tormented creature, unable to bear its life.

Nevertheless sleep came.  For nights she had scarcely slept, and in the silence immediately round her the distant sounds gradually lost their dreary note, and became a rhythmical and soothing influence.  She fell into a deep unconsciousness.

* * * * *

An hour later, a tall man rang at the outer door of the flat.  Mrs. Simpson obeyed the summons, and found Sir William Farrell on the threshold.

‘Well, have they come?’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’  And Mrs. Simpson gave a rapid, sotto voce account of the visitors’ arrival, their lunch, Mrs. Sarratt’s sad looks—­’poor little lady!’—­and much else.

Sir William stepped in.

‘Are they at home?’

Mrs. Simpson shook her head.

’They went out after lunch, Sir William, and I have not heard them come in.’

Which, of course, was a mistake on the part of Mrs. Simpson, who, hearing the front door close half an hour after luncheon and no subsequent movement in the flat, had supposed that the sisters had gone out together.