'But I'm sure you'll be wanting your lunch, Ma'am,' said the woman at last, venturing a compassionate glance at the pale young creature beside her. 'It'll be ready in five minutes. I'll tell Simpson he can serve it.' She disappeared, and Nelly sank into a chair. Why had they come to this place? Her whole nature was in revolt. The gaiety and luxury of the flat seemed to rise up and reproach her. What was she doing in such surroundings?--when George--Oh, it was hateful--hateful! She thought with longing of the little bare room in the Rydal lodgings, where they had been happy together. 'Well, are you ready?' said Bridget, bustling in. 'Do take off your things. You look absolutely done up!' Nelly rose slowly, but her face had flushed. 'I can't stay here, Bridget!' she said with energy--'I can't! I don't know why we came.' 'Because we were asked,' said Bridget calmly. 'We can stay, I think, for a couple of days, can't we, till we find something else? Where are your brushes?' And she began vigorously unpacking for her sister, helplessly watched by Nelly. They had just come from D---- Street, where Nelly had been shewn various letters and telegrams; but nothing which promised any real further clue to George Sarratt's fate. He had been seen advancing--seen wounded--by at least a dozen men of the regiment, and a couple of officers, all of whom had now been communicated with. But the wave of the counter-attack--temporarily successful--had rushed over the same ground before the British gains had been finally consolidated, and from that fierce and confused fighting there came no further word of George Sarratt. It was supposed that in the final German retreat he had been swept up as a German prisoner. He was not among the dead found and buried by an English search party on the following day--so much had been definitely ascertained. The friendly volunteer in D---- Street--whose name appeared to be Miss Eustace--had tried to insist with Nelly that on the whole, and so far, the news collected was not discouraging. At least there was no verification of death. And for the rest, there were always the letters from Geneva to wait for. 'One must be patient,' Miss Eustace had said finally. 'These things take so long! But everybody's doing their best.' And she had grasped Nelly's cold hands in hers, long and pityingly. Her own fine aquiline face seemed to have grown thinner and more strained even since Nelly had known it. She often worked in the office, she said, up to midnight. All these recollections and passing visualisations of words and faces, drawn from those busy rooms a few streets off, in which not only George Sarratt's fate, but her own, as it often seemed to Nelly, were being slowly and inexorably decided, passed endlessly through her brain, as she mechanically took off her things, and brushed her hair.