Mary’s announcement of the event was couched in sober terms, shorn of such fine flowers of suggestion and comment.  Yet it breathed an unmistakable satisfaction, which, to Damaris’ contrition, found instant echo in her own heart.  She ought, she knew, to feel distressed at poor Theresa’s vanishing—­only she didn’t and couldn’t.  As an inherent consequence of the afore-chronicled bridge-crossing, Theresa was more than ever out of the picture.  To listen to her chatterings, to evade her questionings would, under existing circumstances, amount to a daily trial from which the young girl felt thankful to escape.  For Damaris entertained a conviction the circumstances in question would call for fortitude and resource of an order unknown, alike in their sternness and their liberality of idea, to Theresa’s narrowly High Anglican and academic standards of thought and conduct.  She therefore ascertained from her informant that Miss Verity had been as actively instrumental in the vanishing—­had, to be explicit, taken “Miss Bilson, and all her luggage (such a collection!) except two disgraceful old tin boxes which were to be forwarded by the carrier, away with her in her own Marychurch fly.”—­And at this Damaris left the business willingly enough, secure that if tender-hearted Aunt Felicia was party to the removal, it would very surely be effected with due regard to appearances and as slight damage to “feelings” as could well be.

Later Sir Charles referred briefly to the subject, adding: 

“When you require another lady-in-waiting we will choose her ourselves, I think, rather than accept a nominee of my sister Felicia’s.  She is certain to have some more or less unsuitable and incapable person on hand, upon whom she ardently desires to confer benefits.”

“But must I have another lady-in-waiting?” Damaris meaningly and pleadingly asked.

Charles Verity drew his hand down slowly over his flowing moustache, and smiled at her in tender amusement, as she sat up in a much lace and ribbon befrilled jacket, her hair hanging down in a heavy plait on either side the white column of her warmly white throat.  Her face was refined to a transparency of colouring, even as it seemed of texture, from confinement to the house and from lassitude following upon fever, which, while he recognized its loveliness, caused him a pretty sharp pang.  Still she looked content, as he told himself.  Her glance was frank and calm, without suggestion of lurking anxiety.

Nor was she unoccupied and brooding—­witness the counterpane strewn with books, with balls of wool, a sock in leisurely process of knitting, and, in a hollow of it, Mustapha, the brindled cat, luxuriously sleeping curled round against her feet.

“Heaven knows I’ve no special craving your lady-in-waiting should find a speedy successor,” he said.  “But to do without one altogether might appear a rather daring experiment.  Your aunts would be loud in protest.”