They belonged to the deepest the most superb of life, this rent gorge, these mountains—­like Faircloth’s letter.  Would beautiful and noble sights, such as these, always in future give her an ache of longing for the writer of that letter, for the romance, the poetry, of the unacknowledged relation he bore to her?  Tears smarted hot in Damaris’ eyes, and resolutely, if rather piteously, she essayed to wink them away.  For to her it just now seemed, the deepest, the most superb of life was also in great measure the forbidden.  The ache must be endured, then, the longing go unsatisfied, since she could only stay the pain of them by doing violence to plain and heretofore fondly cherished, duties.

But her tears defied the primitive process of winking.  Not so cheaply could she rid herself of their smart and the blurred distorted vision they occasioned.  She pulled out her handkerchief petulantly and wiped them.  Then schooled herself to a colder, more moderate and reasonable temper.

And, so doing, her thought turned gratefully to Mrs. Frayling.  For mercifully Henrietta was here to help fill the void; to, in a manner, break her fall.  Henrietta didn’t belong to the depths or the heights, that she regretfully admitted.  With the eternal snows she possessed little or nothing in common.  But, at a lower, more everyday level, had not she a vast amount to offer, what with her personal loveliness, her social cleverness, her knowledge of the world and its ways?  She might not amount to the phoenix of Damaris’ childhood’s adoration; but she was very friendly, very diverting, delightfully kind.  Damaris honestly believed all these excellent things of her.—­She had been stupidly fastidious three days ago, and failed to do Henrietta justice.  What she had learned—­by chance—­this afternoon, of Henrietta’s unselfishness and generous treatment of Marshall Wace bore effectively convincing witness to the sweetness of her disposition and kindness of her heart.  Damaris felt bound to make amends for that unspoken injustice, of which she now repented.  How better could she do so than by giving herself warmly, without reserve or restraint, in response to the interest and attention Henrietta lavished upon her?—­At eighteen, to be wooed by so finished and popular a person was no mean compliment.—­She wouldn’t hold back, suspicious and grudging; but enjoy all Henrietta so delightfully offered to the uttermost.

And there, as though clenching the conclusion thus arrived at, Mrs. Frayling’s voice gaily hailed her, calling: 

“Damaris, Damaris, here is our tea—­or rather our coffee.  Come, darling child, and partake before it gets cold.”

So after a brief pause, spent in determined looking, the girl bowed her head in mute farewell; and turned her back perhaps courageously, perhaps unwisely and somewhat faithlessly, upon the mountains, and the rare mysteries of their untrodden snows.  She went across the sparse turf, starred with tiny clear, coloured flowers, her face stern, for all its youthful bloom and softness, her eyes meditative and profound.