Then—­“You are my cousin, Thomas Verity?” the girl asked, with a grave air of ceremony.

“Yes—­and you—­you are my cousin Damaris,” he answered as he felt clumsily, being taken unaware in more respects than one, and, for all his ready adaptability, being unable to keep a note of surprise out of his voice and glance.

He had known of the existence of this little cousin, having heard—­on occasion—­vaguely irritated family mention of her birth at a time when the flame of the Mutiny still burned fiercely in the Punjab and in Oudh.  To be born under such very accentuated circumstances could, in the eyes of every normal Verity, hardly fail to argue a certain obtrusiveness and absence of good taste.  He had heard, moreover, disapproving allusions to the extravagant affection Sir Charles Verity was said to lavish upon this fruit of a somewhat obscure marriage—­his only surviving child.  But the said family talk, in Tom’s case, had gone in at one ear and out at the other—­as the talk of the elder generation mostly does, and will, when the younger generation is solidly and wholesomely convinced of the overwhelming importance of its own personal affairs.  Consequently, in coming to Deadham Hard, Tom had thought of this little cousin—­in as far as it occurred to him to think of her at all—­as a child in the schoolroom who, beyond a trifle of good-natured notice at odd moments, would not enter into the count or matter at all.  Now, awakening to the fact of her proximity, he awoke to the further fact that, with one exception, she mattered more than anything or anybody else present.

She was, in truth, young—­he had been quite right there.  Yet, like the room in the doorway of which he still lingered, like the man standing on the terrace walk—­to whose tall figure the serene immensities of sea and sky acted as back-cloth and setting—­she imposed herself.  Whether she was pretty or plain, Tom was just now incapable of judging.  He only knew that her eyes were wonderful.  He never remembered to have seen such eyes—­clear, dark blue-grey with fine shading of eyelash on the lower as well as the upper lid.  Unquestionably they surpassed all ordinary standards of prettiness.  Were glorious, yet curiously embarrassing; too in their seriousness, their intent impartial scrutiny—­under which last, to his lively vexation, the young man felt himself redden.

And this, considering his superiority in age, sex, and acquirements, was not only absurd but unfair somehow.  For did not he, as a rule, get on charmingly well with women, gentle and simple, old and young, alike?  Had he not an ingratiating, playfully flirtatious way with them in which he trusted?  But flirtatiousness, even of the mildest description, would not do here.  Instinctively he recognized that.  It would not pay at all—­in this stage of the acquaintance, at all events.  He fell back on civil speeches; and these rather laboured ones, being himself rather discountenanced.