The implication was that everyone else was idle. Nelly drew back, rebuffed. And as Bridget reached the group at the top of the hill it was as though the rain and darkness suddenly deepened. All talk dropped. Farrell, indeed, greeted her courteously, introduced her to the Stewarts, and asked her to come back to the cottage for tea. But he was refused as Nelly had been. Bridget went on her way alone towards the farm. But after parting from the others she turned back suddenly to say—'There were no letters for you, Nelly.'
'What a mercy!' said Farrell, as Bridget disappeared. 'Don't you think so? I never have any forwarded here.'
'Ah, but you get so many,' said Nelly wistfully. 'But still, letters don't matter to me—now.'
He said nothing, but it roused in him a kind of fierce soreness that she would always keep the past so clearly before herself and him.
Violent rain came on, and they hurried back to the cottage for shelter. Cicely was talking extravagantly all the time. She was tired to death, she said, of everything patriotic. The people who prattled about nursing, and the people who prattled about the war—especially the people who talked about women's work—were all equally intolerable. She meant to give up everything very soon. Somebody must amuse themselves, or the world would go mad. Farrell threw at her some brotherly jibes; the old Rector looked scared; and Marsworth said nothing.
* * * * *
There were bright fires in the cottage, and the dripping walkers were glad to crowd round them; all except Cicely and Marsworth, who seemed to Nelly's watching sense to be oddly like two wrestlers pacing round each other, and watching the opportunity to close. Each would take out a book from the shelves and put it back, or take up a newspaper from the tables—crossing repeatedly, but never speaking. And meanwhile Nelly also noticed that Daisy Stewart, now that Cicely's close contact was removed, was looking extraordinarily pretty. Radiance, not to be concealed, shone from her charming childish face.
Suddenly Marsworth paused in front of Cicely, intercepting her as she was making for the door.
'Would you be an angel, Miss Farrell, and help me to find a particular
Turner drawing I want to see? Willy says it's in the studio somewhere.'
Cicely paused, half haughty, half irresolute.