The fixed red widened, painfully inundating the young man’s countenance.  He was infuriated by his own awkwardness.  Humiliated by Mrs. Frayling’s warning, of which her subsequent apology failed to mitigate the disgrace.  And that this should occur just in the hour of satisfied vanity, of agreeable success—­and before Damaris!  In her eyes he must be miserably disqualified henceforth.

But his misfortunes worked to quite other ends than he anticipated.  For Damaris came nearer, her expression gravely earnest as appealing to him not to mind, not to let these things vex him.

“I have never heard anyone read so beautifully,” she told him.  “You make the words come alive so that one sees the whole story happening.  It is wonderful.  I shall always remember this afternoon because of your reading—­and shall long to hear you again—­often, I know, long for that.”

Wace bowed.  This innocent enthusiasm was extremely assuaging to his wounded self-esteem.

“You have but to ask me, Miss Verity.  I shall be only too honoured, too happy to read to you whenever you have leisure and inclination to listen.”

But here Mrs. Frayling put her arm round Damaris’ waist, affectionately, laughingly, and drew her towards the door.

“Come, come, darling child—­don’t be too complimentary or Marshall will grow unbearably conceited.—­You’ll put on flannels, by the way, Marshall, won’t you?” she added as an after-thought.

“I shall not play tennis this afternoon,” he answered, his nose in the air.  “There will be plenty for a change of setts without me.  I am not good enough for Binning and his two young aristocrats, and I don’t choose to make sport for the Philistines by an exhibition of my ineptitude.  I have no pretentious to being an athlete.”

“Nonsense, Marshall, nonsense,” she took him up quickly, conscious his reply was not in the best taste.  “You wilfully underrate yourself.”

Then later, as, still entwined, she conducted Damaris upstairs to her bed-chamber.

“There you have the position in a nutshell,” she said.  “Still am I not right?  For hasn’t he charm, poor dear fellow, so very much cleverness—­so really gifted isn’t he?”

And as the girl warmly agreed: 

“Ah!  I am so very glad you appreciate him.—­And you have yet to hear him sing!  That takes one by storm, I confess—­Unhappy Maud Callowgas!—­But you see how frightfully on edge he is—­how he turns off for no valid reason, imagines himself a failure, imagines himself out of it?  In point of fact he plays a quite passable game of tennis—­and you heard what he said?  These fits of depression and self-depreciation amount to being tragic.  One requires endless tact to manage him and save him from himself.”

Henrietta paused, sighed, sitting on the stool before her toilette table, neatly placing tortoiseshell hairpins, patting and adjusting her bright brown hair.