He protested that he
mustn't stay a moment, but all the same he came in, and stood with his
hands in his pockets looking at the view. He seemed to Nelly to fill the
little sitting-room. Not that he was stout. There was not an ounce of
superfluous flesh on him anywhere. But he stood at least six foot four
in his boots; his shoulders were broad in proportion; and his head, with
its strong curly hair of a light golden brown, which was repeated in his
short beard, carried itself with the unconscious ease of one who has
never known anything but the upper seats of life. His features were
handsome, except for a broad irregular mouth, and his blue eyes were
kind and lazily humorous.

'There's nothing better than that lake,' he said, motioning towards it,
with his hand, as though he followed the outlines of the hills. 'But I
never try to draw it. I leave that to the fellows who think they can!
I'm afraid your permit's only for a week, Mrs. Sarratt. The boat, I
find, will be wanted after that.'

'Oh, but my husband will be gone in a week--less than a week. I couldn't
row myself!' said Nelly, smiling.

But Sir William thought the smile trembled a little, and he felt very
sorry for the small, pretty creature.

'You will be staying on here after your husband goes?'

'Oh yes. My sister will be with me. We know the Lakes very well.'

'Staying through the summer, I suppose?' 'I shan't want to move--if the
war goes on. We haven't any home of our own--yet.'

She had seated herself, and spoke with the self-possession which belongs
to those who know themselves fair to look upon. But there seemed to be
no coquetry about her--no consciousness of a male to be attracted. All
her ways were very gentle and childish, and in her white dress she made
the same impression on Farrell as she had on Bridget, of
extreme--absurd--youthfulness. He guessed her age about nineteen,
perhaps younger.

'I'm afraid the war will go on,' he said, kindly. 'We are only now just
finding out our deficiencies.'

Nelly sighed.

'I know--it's _awful_ how we want guns and shells! My husband says it
makes him savage to see how we lose men for want of them. _Why_ are we
so short? Whose fault is it?'

A spot of angry colour had risen in her cheek. It was the dove defending
her mate. The change was lovely, and Farrell, with his artist's eye,
watched it eagerly. But he shook his head.

'It's nobody's fault. It's all on such a scale--unheard of! Nobody could
hav