The visit—­not inconceivably to his inward thanksgiving—­proved unfruitful of opportunity for excusing Miss Bilson, to her former employer, by accusing himself, Sir Charles Verity’s courtesy being of an order calculated to discourage any approach to personal topics.  Unfruitful, also, of enlightenment to Mrs. Horniblow respecting matters which—­as the good lady ashamedly confessed to herself—­although forbidden by her lord, still intrigued her while, of course, they most suitably shocked.  For the life of her she could not help looking out for signs of disturbance and upheaval.  But found none, unless—­and that presented a conundrum difficult of solution—­Damaris’ pretty social readiness and grace in the reception of her guests might be, in some way, referable to lately reported events.  That, and the fact the young girl was—­as the saying is—­“all eyes”—­eyes calm, fathomless, reflective, which yet, when you happened to enter their sphere of vision, covered you with a new-born gentleness.  Mrs. Horniblow caught herself growing lyrical—­thinking of stars, of twin mountain lakes, the blue-purple of ocean.  A girl in love is blessed with just such eyes—­sometimes.  Whereupon, remembering her own two girls, May and Doris—­good as gold, bless them, yet, her shrewdness pronounced, when compared with Damaris, but homely pieces—­the excellent woman sighed.

What did it all then amount to?  Mrs. Horniblow’s logic failed.  “All eyes”—­and very lovely ones at that—­Damaris might be; yet her tranquillity and serenity appeared beyond question.  Must thrilling mystery be voted no more than a mare’s-nest?—­Only, did not the fact remain that James had refused to commit himself either way, thereby naturally landing himself in affirmation up to the neck?  She gave it up.

But, even in the giving up, could not resist probing just a little.  The two gentlemen were out of earshot, standing near the glass door.—­How James’ black, bow-windowed figure and the fixed red in his clean-shaven, slightly pendulous cheeks, did show up to be sure, in the light!—­Unprofitable gift of observation, for possession of which she so frequently had cause to reproach herself.—­

“You still look a little run down and pale, my dear,” she said.  “It isn’t for me to advise, but wouldn’t a change of air and scene be good, don’t you think?”

Damaris assured her not—­in any case not yet.  Later, after Christmas, she and her father might very likely go abroad.  But till then they had a full programme of guests.

“Colonel Carteret comes to us next week; and my aunt Felicia always likes to be here in November.  She enjoys that month at the seaside, finding it, she says, so poetic.”

Damaris smiled, her eyes at once, and more than ever, eloquent and unfathomable.

“And I learned only this morning an old Anglo-Indian friend of ours, Mrs. Mackinder, whom I should be quite dreadfully sorry to miss, is spending the autumn at Stourmouth.”