t was passing away. She was George's, she would
always be his, to her dying day; but to live without being loved, to
tear herself from those who wished to love her--for that she had proved
too weak. She knew it, and was not unconscious of a certain moral
defeat; as she looked out upon all the strenuous and splendid things
that women were doing in the war.

* * * * *

Farrell and Cicely sped homeward through a night that was all but day.
Cicely scarcely spoke; she was thinking of Marsworth. Farrell had still
in his veins the sweetness of Nelly's presence. But there were other
thoughts too in his mind, the natural thoughts of an Englishman at war.
Once, over their heads, through the luminous northern sky, there passed
an aeroplane flying south-west high above the fells. Was it coming from
the North Sea, from the neighbourhood of that invincible Fleet, on which
all hung, by which all was sustained? He thought of the great ships, and
the men commanding them, as greyhounds straining in the leash. What
touch of fate would let them loose at last?

The Carton hospital was now full of men fresh from the front. The
casualties were endless. A thousand a night often along the French
front--and yet no real advance. The far-flung battle was practically at
a stand-still. And beyond, the chaos in the Balkans, the Serbian
debacle! No--the world was full of lamentation, mourning and woe; and
who could tell how Armageddon would turn? His quick mind travelled
through all the alternative possibilities ahead, on fire for his
country. But always, after each digression through the problems of the
war, thought came back to the cottage at Rydal, and Nelly on the lawn,
her white throat emerging from the thin black dress, her hands clasped
on her lap, her eyes turned to him as he read.

And all the time it was _just_ conceivable that Sarratt might still be
discovered. At that thought, the summer night darkened.

CHAPTER XI

In the summer of 1916, a dark and miserable June, all chilly showers and
lowering clouds, followed on the short-lived joys of May. But all
through it, still more through the early weeks of July, the spiritual
heaven for English hearts was brightening. In June, two months before
she was expected to move, Russia flung herself on the Eastern front of
the enemy. Brussiloff's victorious advance drove great wedges into the
German line, and the effect on that marvellous six months' battle,