“Listen,” Damaris said.  “It is mournful here.  It tells you the same things over and over again.  It sort of insists on them.  The place seems so peaceful, but it never lets you alone, really.  And now, after what happened, it never leaves him—­the Commissioner Sahib—­alone.  It repeats the same story to him over and over again.  It wears him as dropping water wears away stone.  And there is no longer the same reason for staying there was at first.  Persuade him to go away, to take me abroad.  And come with us—­couldn’t you?—­for a little while at least.  Is it selfish to ask you to leave your hunting and shooting so early in the season?  I don’t want to be selfish.  But he isn’t well.  Whether he isn’t well in his body or only in his thinkings, I can’t tell.  But it troubles me.  He sleeps badly, I am afraid.  The nights must be very long and lonely when one can’t sleep.—­If you would come, it would be so lovely.  I should feel so safe about him.  You and the book should cure him between you.  I’m perfectly sure of that.  To have you would make us both so happy”—­

And, in her innocent importunity, Damaris slipped her hand within Colonel Carteret’s arm sweetly coaxing him.

He started slightly.  Threw back his head, standing, straight and tall, in the mysterious twilight beside her.  Raised his deerstalker cap, for a moment, letting the moist chill of the November evening dwell on his hair and forehead.

Though very popular with women, Carteret had never married, making a home for his elder sister, Mrs. Dreydel—­widow of a friend and fellow officer in the then famous “Guides”—­and her four sturdy, good-looking boys at the Norfolk manor-house, which had witnessed his own birth and those of a long line of his ancestors.  To bring up a family of his own, in addition to his sister’s, would have been too costly, and debt he abhorred.  Therefore, such devoirs as he paid the great goddess Aphrodite, were but few and fugitive—­he being by nature and temperament an idealist and a notably clean liver.  By his abstention, however, sentiment was fine-trained rather than extinguished.  His heart remained young, capable of being thrilled in instant response to any appeal of high and delicate quality.  It thrilled very sensibly, now, in response to the appeal of Damaris’ hand, emphasizing her tender pleading regarding her father.  She touched, she charmed him to an extent which obliged him rather sharply to call his senses to order.  Hadn’t he known her ever since she was a babe a span long?  Wasn’t she, according to all reason, a babe still, in as far as any decently minded male being of his mature age could be concerned?  He told himself, at once humorously and sternly, he ought to feel so, think so—­whether he did or not.  And ought, in his case, was a word not to be played fast and loose with.  Once uttered it must be obeyed.

Wherefore, thus conclusively self-admonished, he put his cap on his head again and, bending a little over Damaris, patted her hand affectionately as it rested upon his arm.