To begin with she would humble herself by writing a sweet little letter to Damaris.  In it she would both accuse and excuse her maladroitness of yesterday, pleading the shock of so unlooked-for a coming together and the host of memories evoked by it.—­Would urge how deeply it affected her, overcame her in fact, rendering her incapable of saying half the affectionate things it was in her heart to say.  She might touch on the subject of Damaris’ personal appearance again; which, by literally taking her breath away, had contributed to her general undoing.—­On second thoughts, however, she decided it would be politic to avoid that particular topic, since Damaris was evidently a little shy in respect of her own beauty.—­Henrietta smiled to herself.—­That is a form of shyness exceedingly juvenile, short-lived enough!

Marshall should act as her messenger, she being—­as she could truthfully aver—­eager her missive might reach its destination with all possible despatch.  A letter, moreover, delivered by hand takes on an importance, makes a claim on the attention, greater than that of one received by post.  There is a personal gesture in the former mode of transmission by no means to be despised in delicate operations such as the present—­“I want to set myself right with you at once, dearest child, in case, as I fear, you may have a little misunderstood, me yesterday.  Accident having so strangely restored us to one another, I long to hold you closely if you will let me do so.”—­Yes, it should run thus, the theme embroidered with high-flashing colour of Eastern reminiscence—­the great subtropic garden of the Sultan-i-bagh, for example, its palms, orange grove and lotus tank, the call of the green parrots, chant of the well-coollie and creak of the primitive wooden gearing, as the yoke of cream white oxen trotted down and laboriously backed up the walled slope to the well-head.

Mrs. Frayling set herself to produce a very pretty piece of sentiment, nicely turned, decorated, worded, and succeeded to her own satisfaction.  Might not she too, at this rate, claim possession of the literary gift—­under stress of circumstance?  The idea was a new one.  It amused her.

And what if Damaris elected to show this precious effusion to her father, Sir Charles?  Well, if the girl did, she did.  It might just conceivably work on him also, to the restoration of past—­infatuation?—­Henrietta left the exact term in doubt.  But her hope of such result was of the smallest.  Exhibition of a tombstone was the most she could count upon.—­More probably he would regard it critically, cynically, putting his finger through her specious phrases.  She doubted his forgiveness of a certain act of virtuous treachery even yet; although he had, in a measure, condoned her commission of it by making use of her on one occasion since, namely, that of her bringing Damaris back twelve years ago to Europe.  But whether his attitude were cynical or not, he would hold his peace.  Such cogent reasons existed for silence on his part that if he did slightly distrust her, hold her a little cheap, he would hardly venture to say as much, least of all to Damaris.—­Venture or condescend?—­Again Mrs. Frayling left the term in doubt and went forward with her schemes, which did, unquestionably just now, add a pleasing zest to life.