The innocent subject of these machinations received both the note and its bearer in a friendly spirit, though she was already, as it happened, rich in letters to-day.  The bi-weekly packet from Deadham—­addressed in Mary Fisher’s careful copy-book hand—­arrived at luncheon time, and contained, among much of apparently lesser interest, a diverting chronicle of Tom Verity’s impressions and experiences during the first six weeks of his Indian sojourn.  The young man’s gaily self-confident humour had survived his transplantation.  He wrote in high feather, quite unabashed by the novelty of his surroundings, yet not forgetting to pay honour where honour was due.

“It has been ‘roses, roses all the way’ thanks to Sir Charles’s introductions, for which I can never be sufficiently grateful,” he told her.  “They have procured me no end of delightful hospitality from the great ones of the local earth, and really priceless opportunities of getting into touch with questions of ruling importance over here.  I am letting my people at home know how very much I owe, and always shall owe, to his kindness in using his influence on my behalf at the start.”

Damaris glowed responsive to this fine flourish of a tone, and passed the letter across the small round dinner table to her father.  Opened a fat packet, enclosed in an envelope of exaggerated tenuity, from Miss Felicia, only to put it aside in favour of another letter bearing an Italian stamp and directed in a, to her, unfamiliar hand.

This was modest in bulk as compared with Miss Felicia’s; but while examining it, while touching it even, Damaris became aware of an inward excitement, of a movement of tenderness not to be ignored or denied.

Startled by her own prescience, and the agitation accompanying it, she looked up quickly to find Carteret watching her; whereupon, mutely, instinctively, her eyes besought him to ask no questions, make no comment.  For an appreciable space he kept her in suspense, his glance holding and challenging hers in close observation.  Then as though, not without a measure of struggle, granting her request, he smiled at her, and, turning his attention to the contents of his plate, quietly went on with the business of luncheon.  Damaris meanwhile, conscience-stricken—­she couldn’t tell why—­by this silent interchange of intelligence, this silent demand on his forbearance, on his connivance in her secrecy, laid the letter face downwards on the white table-cloth, unopened.

Later, Sir Charles Verity being busy with his English correspondence and Carteret having disappeared—­gone for a solitary walk, as she divined, being, as she feared, not quite pleased with her—­she read it in the security of her bedroom, seated, for greater ease, upon the polished parquet floor just inside an open, southward-facing French window, where the breeze coming up off the sea gently fanned her face.

The letter began without preamble: