Discovery of the party at the Grand Hotel, took the gilt off the gingerbread of such queenings, to a marked extent, making them look make-shifty, lamentably second-rate and cheap.  Hence Henrietta’s fretfulness in part.  For with the exception of Lady Hermione Twells—­widow of a once Colonial Governor—­and the Honourable Mrs. Callowgas nee de Brett, relict of a former Bishop of Harchester, they were but scratch pack these local guests of hers.  Soon, however, a scheme of putting that discovery to use broke in on her musings.  The old friendship must, she feared, be counted dead.  General Frayling’s existence, in the capacity of husband, rendered any resurrection of it impracticable.  She recognized that.  Yet exhibition of its tombstone, were such exhibition compassable, could not fail to bring her honour and respect.  She would shine by a reflected light, her glory all the greater that the witnesses of it were themselves obscure—­Lady Hermione and Mrs. Callowgas excepted of course.  Carteret’s good-nature could be counted on to bring him to the villa.  And Damaris must be annexed.  Assuming the role and attitude of a vicarious motherhood, Henrietta herself could hardly fail to gain distinction.  It was a touching part—­specially when played by a childless woman only a little—­yes, really only quite a little—­past her prime.

Here, indeed, was a great idea, as she came to grasp the possibilities and scope of it.  As chaperon to Damaris how many desirable doors would be open to her!  Delicately Henrietta hugged herself perceiving that, other things being equal, her own career was by no means ended yet.  Through Damaris might she not very well enter upon a fresh and effective phase of it?  How often and how ruefully had she revolved the problem of advancing age, questioning how gracefully to confront that dreaded enemy, and endure its rather terrible imposition of hands without too glaring a loss of prestige and popularity!  Might not Damaris’ childish infatuation offer a solution of that haunting problem, always supposing the infatuation could be revived, be recreated?

Ah! what a double-dyed idiot she had been yesterday, in permitting feeling to outrun judgment!—­With the liveliest satisfaction Henrietta could have boxed her own pretty ears in punishment of her passing weakness.—­Yet surely time still remained wherein to retrieve her error and restore her ascendency.  Damaris might be unusually clever; but she was also finely inexperienced, malleable, open to influence as yet.  Let Henrietta then see to it, and that without delay or hesitation, bringing to bear every ingenious social art, and—­if necessary—­artifice, in which long practice had made her proficient.