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.

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 looke