The room in which she stood was small and cheerless; but it was all they could afford. Bridget frankly hated the ugliness and bareness of it; hated the dingy hotel, and the slatternly servants, hated the boredom of the long waiting for news to which apparently she was to be committed, if she stayed on with Nelly. She clearly saw that public opinion would expect her to stay on. And indeed she was not without some natural pity for her younger sister. There were moments when Nelly's state caused her extreme discomfort--even something more. But when they occurred, she banished them as soon as possible, and with a firm will, which grew the firmer with exercise. It was everybody's duty to keep up their spirits and not to be beaten down by this abominable war. And it was a special duty for those who hated the war, and would stop it at once if they could. Yet Bridget had entirely declined to join any 'Stop the War,' or pacifist societies. She had no sympathy with 'that sort of people.' Her real opinion about the war was that no cause could be worth such wretched inconvenience as the war caused to everyone. She hated to feel and know that probably the majority of decent people would say, if asked,--as Captain Marsworth had practically said--that she, Bridget Cookson, ought to be doing V.A.D. work, or relieving munition-workers at week-ends, instead of fiddling with an index to a text-book on 'The New Psychology.' The mere consciousness of that was already an attack on her personal freedom to do what she liked, which she hotly resented. And as to that conscription of women for war-work which was vaguely talked of, Bridget passionately felt that she would go to prison rather than submit to such a thing. For the war said nothing whatever to her heart or conscience. All the great tragic side of it--the side of death and wounds and tears--of high justice and ideal aims--she put away from her, as she always had put away such things, in peace. They did not concern her personally. Why _make_ trouble for oneself? And yet here was a sister whose husband was 'wounded and missing'--probably, as Bridget firmly believed, already dead. And the meaning of that fact--that possibility--was writ so large on Nelly's physical aspect, on Nelly's ways and plans, that there was really no getting away from it. Also--there were other people to be considered. Bridget did not at all want to offend or alienate Sir William Farrell--now less than ever. And she was quite aware that he would think badly of her, if he suspected she was not doing her best for Nelly.