“Very good—­I’ll hold myself and my future at your disposition,” he gaily said to her.  “As much hunting and shooting as I care for will very well keep.  Don’t bother your pretty head about them.  During the Christmas holidays, my nephews will be ready enough, in all conscience, to let fly with my guns and ride my horses, so neither will be wasted.  I’ll go along with you gladly, for no man living is dearer to me than your father, and no business could be more to my taste than scotching and killing the demons which plague him.  They plague all of us, in some form or other, at times, as life goes on.”

Very gently he disengaged his arm from her hand.

“Take me indoors,” he said, “and give me my tea—­over which we’ll further discuss plots for kidnapping Verity and carrying him off south.  The French Riviera for preference?—­Hullo—­what the deuce is that?”

For, as he spoke, the two cats appearing with miraculous suddenness out of nowhere—­as is the custom of their priceless tribe—­rushed wildly past.  Fierce, sinuous, infinitely graceful shapes, leaping high in air, making strange noises, chirrupings and squeakings, thudding of quick little paws, as they chased one another round the antiquated, seaward-trained cannon and pyramid of ball.

For a minute or so Damaris watched them, softly laughing.  Then, in the content bred of Carteret’s promise and the joy of coming travel, something of their frisky spirit caught her too—­a spirit which, for all young creatures, magically haunts the dusk.  And, as they presently fled away up the lawn, Damaris fled after them, circling over the moist grass, darting hither and thither, alternately pursuing and pursued.

Colonel Carteret, following soberly, revolving many thoughts, did not overtake her until the garden door was reached.  There, upon the threshold, the light from within covering and revealing her, she awaited him.  Her bosom rose and fell, her breathing being a little hurried, her face a little flushed.  Her grave eyes sparkled and danced.

“Oh! you’ve made me so glad, so dreadfully glad,” she said.  “And I never properly thanked you.  Forgive me.  I never can resist them—­I went mad with the cats.”

Her young beauty appeared to Carteret very notable; and, yes—­although she might disport herself in this childishly frolic fashion—­it was idle to call her, or pretend her any longer a babe.  For cause to him unknown, through force of some experience of which he remained ignorant, she had undeniably come into the charm and mystery of her womanhood—­a very fair and noble blossoming before which reverently, if wistfully, he bowed his head.

“It’s good to have you declare yourself glad, dear witch, in that case I’m glad too,” he answered her.  “But as to forgiveness, I’m inclined to hold it over until you leave off being tantalizing—­and, upon my word, I find you uncommonly far from leaving off just now!”

“You mean until I tell you what happened?”