'

Bridget cleared the chair on which Nelly had placed her paint-box, and
sat down. She was silent a little and then said abruptly--

'It's a horrid bore, I shall have to go to London again.'

'Again?' Nelly's look of surprise was natural. Bridget had returned from
another long stay in the Bloomsbury boarding-house early in October, and
it was now only the middle of the month. But Bridget's doings were
always a great mystery to Nelly. She was translating something from the
Spanish--that was all Nelly knew--and also, that when an offer had been
made to her through a friend, of some translating work for the Foreign
Office, she had angrily refused it. She would not, she said, be a slave
to any public office.

'Won't it be awfully expensive?' said Nelly after a pause, as Bridget
did not answer. The younger sister was putting her painting things
away, and making ready to go in. For though the day had been wonderfully
warm for October, the sun had just set over Bowfell, and the air had
grown suddenly chilly.

'Well, I can't help it,' said Bridget, rather roughly. 'I shall have to
go.'

Something in her voice made Nelly look at her.

'I say you _are_ tired! Come in and lie down a little. That walk from
Grasmere's too much for you!'

Bridget submitted with most unusual docility.

The sisters entered the house together.

'I'll go upstairs for a little,' said Bridget. 'I shall be all right by
supper.' Then, as she slowly mounted the stairs, a rather gaunt and
dragged figure in her dress of grey alpaca, she turned to say--

'I met Sir William on the road just now. He passed me in the car, and
waved his hand. He called out something--I couldn't hear it.'

'Perhaps to say he would come to supper,' said Nelly, her face
brightening. 'I'll go and see what there is.'

Bridget went upstairs. Her small raftered room was invaded by the last
stormy light of the autumn evening. The open casement window admitted a
cold wind. Bridget shut it, with a shiver. But instead of lying down,
she took a chair by the window, absently removed her hat, and sat there
thinking. The coppery light from the west illumined her face with its
strong discontented lines, and her hands, which were large, but white
and shapely--a source indeed of personal pride to their owner.

Presently, in the midst of her reverie, she heard a step outside, and
saw Sir William Farrell approaching the gate. Nelly, wrapped in a white
shawl, was still strolling about