was not as yet aware of the new
relations between the two. And then, flinging herself into a chair
beside Nelly, she declared that she was dead-beat, that the train had
been intolerably full of khaki, and that soldiers ought to have trains
to themselves.

'Thank your stars, Cicely, that you are allowed to travel at all,' said
Farrell. 'No civilian nowadays matters a hap'orth.'

'And then we talk about Prussian Militarism!' cried Cicely. And she went
off at score describing the invasion of her compartment at Rugby by a
crowd of young officers, whose manners were 'atrocious.'

'What was their crime?' asked Marsworth, quietly. He sat in the
background, cigarette in hand, a strong figure, rather harshly drawn,
black hair slightly grizzled, a black moustache, civilian clothes. He
had filled out since the preceding summer and looked much better in
health. But his left arm was still generally in its sling.

'They had every crime!' said Cicely impatiently. 'It isn't worth
discriminating.'

Marsworth raised his eyebrows.

'Poor boys!'

Cicely flushed.

'You think, of course, I have no right to criticise anything in khaki!'

'Not at all. Criticism is the salt of life.' His eyes twinkled.

'That I entirely deny!' said Cicely, firmly. She made a fantastic but
agreeable figure as she sat near the window in the full golden light of
the March evening. Above her black toque there soared a feather which
almost touched the ceiling of the low room--a _panache_, nodding
defiance; while her short grey skirts shewed her shapely ankles and
feet, clothed in grey gaiters and high boots of the very latest
perfection.

'What do you deny, Cicely?' asked her brother, absently, conscious
always, through all the swaying of talk, of the slight childish form of
Nelly Sarratt beneath him, in her deep chair; and of the eyes and mouth,
which after the few passing smiles he had struck from them, were veiled
again in their habitual sadness. '_Here I and sorrow sit_.' The words
ran through his mind, only to be passionately rejected. She was
young!--and life was long. Forget she would, and must.

At her brother's question, Cicely merely shrugged her shoulders.

'Your sister was critical,' said Marsworth, laughing,--'and then denies
the uses of criticism.'

'As some people employ it!' said Cicely, pointedly.

Marsworth's mouth twitched--but he said nothing.

Then Hester, perceiving that the atmosphere was stormy, started some of
the usual