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the lake--'
'Oh, but it isn't allowed!' She turned on him a pair of astonished eyes.
'Not in general. Ah, I see you know these parts already. But I happen to
know the owner of the boathouse. Shall I get you leave?'
'Oh, that would be delightful!' she said, her face kindling with a child's
joyousness. 'That is kind of you! Our name is Sarratt--my husband is
Lieutenant Sarratt.'
--'Of the 21st Lanchesters? All right--I'll see to it!'

And he ran back to his car, while the young people disappeared into the
little entrance hall of the lodging-house, and the door shut upon them.
Miss Farrell received her brother with gibes. Trust William for finding
out a beauty! Who were they?
Farrell handed on his information as the car sped along the Keswick
road.
'Going back in a week, is he?' said the convalescent officer beside him.
Then, bitterly--'lucky dog!'
Farrell looked at the speaker kindly.
'What--with a wife to leave?'
The boy, for he was little more, shrugged his shoulders. At that
moment he knew no passion but the passion for the regiment and his
men, to whom he couldn't get back, because his 'beastly constitution'
wouldn't let him recover as quickly as other men did. What did women
matter?--when the 'push' might be on, any day.
Cicely Farrell continued to chaff her brother, who took it
placidly--fortified by a big cigar.
'And if she'd been plain, Willy, you'd never have so much as known she
was there! Did you tell her you haunted these parts?'
He shook his head.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the bride and bridegroom had been met on the
lodging-house stairs by the bride's sister, who allowed herself to be
kissed by the bridegroom, and hugged by the bride. Her lack of
effusion, however, made little impression on the newcomers. They
were in that state of happiness which transfigures everything round it;
they were delighted with the smallest things; with the little
lodging-house sitting room, its windows open to the lake and river;

with its muslin curtains, very clean and white, its duster-rose too, just
outside the window; with Mrs. Weston, who in her friendly flurry had
greeted the bride as 'Miss Nelly,' and was bustling to get the tea; even,
indeed, with Bridget Cookson's few casual attentions to them. Mrs.
Sarratt thought it 'dear' of Bridget to have come to meet them, and
ordered tea for them, and put those delicious roses in her room--
'I didn't!' said Bridget, drily. 'That was Milly. It didn't occur to me.'
The bride looked a little checked. But then the tea came in, a real
Westmorland meal, with its toasted bun, its jam, and its 'twist' of new
bread; and Nelly Sarratt forgot everything but the pleasure of making
her husband eat, of filling his cup for him, of looking sometimes
through the window at that shining lake, beside which she and George
would soon be roaming--for six long days. Yes, and nights too. For
there was a moon rising, which would be at the full in two or three days.
Imagination flew forward, as she leant dreamily back in her chair when
the meal was over, her eyes on the landscape. They two alone--on that
warm summer lake--drifting in the moonlight--heart against heart,
cheek against cheek. A shiver ran through her, which was partly
passion, partly a dull fear. But she banished fear. Nothing--nothing
should spoil their week together.
'Darling!' said her husband, who had been watching her--'You're not
very tired?' He slipped his hand round hers, and her fingers rested in his
clasp, delighted to feel themselves so small, and his so strong. He had
spoken to her in the low voice that was hers alone. She was jealous lest
Bridget should have overheard it. But Bridget was at the other end of
the room. How foolish it had been of her--just because she was so
happy, and wanted to be nice to everybody!--to have asked Bridget to
stay with them! She was always doing silly things like that--impulsive
things. But now she was married. She must think more. It was really
very considerate of Bridget to have got them all out of a difficulty and
to have settled herself a mile away from them; though at first it had
seemed rather unkind. Now they could see her always sometime in the
day, but not so as to interfere. She was afraid Bridget and George
would never really get on, though she--Nelly--wanted to forget all the

unpleasantness there had been,--to forget everything--everything but
George. The fortnight's honeymoon lay like a haze of sunlight between
her and the past.
But Bridget had noticed the voice and the clasped hands,--with
irritation. Really, after a fortnight, they might have done with that kind
of demonstrativeness. All the same, Nelly