There was the sound of a motor-car on the road, which ran along one side
of the garden, divided from it by a high wall. It could hardly be they;
for they were coming frugally by the coach. But Miss Cookson went across
to a side window looking on the road to investigate.

At the foot of the hill opposite stood a luxurious car, waiting
evidently for the party which was now descending the hill towards it.
Bridget had a clear view of them, herself unseen behind Mrs. Weston's
muslin blinds. A girl was in front, with a young man in khaki, a
convalescent officer, to judge from his frail look and hollow eyes. The
girl was exactly like the fashion-plate in the morning's paper. She wore
a very short skirt and Zouave jacket in grey cloth, high-heeled grey
boots, with black tips and gaiters, a preposterous little hat perched on
one side of a broad white forehead, across which the hair was parted
like a boy's, and an ostrich plume on the top of the hat, which nodded
and fluttered so extravagantly that the face beneath almost escaped the
spectator's notice. Yet it was on the whole a handsome face, audacious,
like its owner's costume, and with evident signs--for Bridget Cookson's
sharp eyes--of slight make-up.

Miss Cookson knew who she was. She had seen her in the neighbouring
town that morning, and had heard much gossip about her. She was Miss
Farrell, of Carton Hall, and that gentleman coming down the hill more
slowly behind her was no doubt her brother Sir William.

Lame? That of course was the reason why he was not in the army. It was
not very conspicuous, but still quite definite. A stiff knee, Miss
Cookson supposed--an accident perhaps--some time ago. Lucky for him!--on
any reasonable view. Bridget Cookson thought the war 'odious,' and gave