Of which cryptic utterance Damaris, at the time, could—­to quote her own phrase—­“make no sense!”—­Nor could she make sense of it, now, when counting her blessings, she rested, in happy idleness, upon the faded scarlet cushions of the window-seat.

She remembered the occasion quite well on which Carteret thus expressed himself one afternoon, during their stay in Paris, on the southward journey.  She had worn a new myrtle-green, black-braided, fur-trimmed cloth pelisse and hat to match, as she also remembered, bought the day before at a fascinating shop in the Rue Castiglione.  Agreeably conscious her clothes were not only very much “the right thing” but decidedly becoming, she had gone, with him, to pay a visit of ceremony at the convent school—­near the Church of St. Germain-les-Pres—­where, as a little girl of six, fresh from India and the high dignities of the Bhutpur Sultan-i-bagh, she had been deposited by her father’s old friend, Mrs. John Pereira, who had brought her and Sarah Watson, her nurse, back to Europe.

The sojourn at the convent—­once the surprise of translation from East to West, from reigning princess to little scholar was surmounted—­proved fertile in gentle memories.  The visit of to-day, not only revived these memories, but added to their number.  For it passed off charmingly.  Carteret seemed by no means out of place among the nuns—­well-bred and gracious women of hidden, consecrated lives.  They, indeed, appeared instinctively drawn to him and fluttered round him in the sweetest fashion imaginable; he, meanwhile, bearing himself towards them with an exquisite and simple courtesy beyond all praise.  Never had Damaris admired the “man with the blue eyes” more, never felt a more perfect trust in him, than when beholding him as Mousquetaire au Couvent thus!

As they emerged again into the clear atmosphere and resonance of the Paris streets, and made their way back by the Rue du Bac, the Pont Royal and the gardens of the Tuileries, to their hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, Carteret spoke reverently of the religious life, and the marvellous adaptability of the Catholic system to every need, every attitude of the human heart and conscience.  He spoke further of the loss those inevitably sustain, who—­from whatever cause—­stand outside the creeds, unable to set their spiritual God-ward hopes and aspirations within a definite external framework of doctrine and practice hallowed by tradition.

“I could almost wish those dear holy women had gathered your little soul into the fold, when they had you in their keeping and made a good Catholic of you, dearest witch,” he told her.  “It would have been a rather flagrant case of cradle-snatching, I own, but I can’t help thinking it would have simplified many difficulties for you.”

“And raised a good many, too,” Damaris gaily answered him.  “For Aunt Harriet Cowden would have been furious, and Aunt Felicia distressed and distracted; and poor Nannie—­though she really got quite tame with the Sisters, and came to respect them in the end—­would have broken her heart at my being taught to worship images, and have believed hell yawned to devour me.  Oh!  I think it was more fair to wait.—­All the same I loved their religion—­I love it still.”