'Certainly!' said Cicely, with a clearing brow. 'Don't let's talk any more about it. Do give me some lunch. I'm ravenous. Ah, here's your sister!'
For through a back window looking on what had once been a farm-yard, and was now a small garden, Cicely saw Bridget emerge from the rebuilt outhouse where an impromptu study had been devised for her, and walk towards the farm.
'I say, what's happened to your sister?'
'Happened to her? What do you mean?'
'She looks so much older.'
'I suppose she's been working too hard,' said Nelly, remorsefully. 'I wish I knew what it was all about.'
'Well, I can tell you'—said Cicely laughing and whispering—'that
Willy doesn't think it's about anything in particular!'
'Hush!' said Nelly, with a pained look. 'Perhaps we shall all turn out to be quite wrong. We shall discover that it was something—'
'Desperately interesting and important? Not it! But I'm going to be as good as good. You'll see.'
And when Bridget appeared, Cicely did indeed behave herself with remarkable decorum. Her opinion was that Nelly's strange sister had grown more unlike other people than ever since she had last seen her. She seemed to be in a perpetual brown study, which was compatible, however, with a curious watchfulness which struck Cicely particularly. She was always aware of any undercurrent in the room—of anyone going in or out—of persons passing in the road. At lunch she scarcely opened her lips, but Cicely was all the time conscious of being observed. After luncheon Bridget got up abruptly, and said she was going down to Grasmere to post a letter.