For, when he came to consider matters, was he not in perfect health, more sound and fit than many a man but half his age?  And were not his fortunes just now at a specially happy turn, his sister, Mrs. Dreydel, having lately been blessed with a windfall, in the shape of yearly income, which—­did he so choose—­relieved him of much expenditure on her account.  Her eldest son had received his commission.  The three younger boys had done well as to scholarships thereby materially reducing the cost of their education.  Never had he, Carteret, been so free to consult his private desires; and never, as he knew too profoundly well, had his desires taken so definite and delicious a form.  Nevertheless it remained a madness to be mastered, to be ejected.—­His last thought, as his first, pronounced it that.

Unconsciously, pushed by this stress of rather turbulent sensations, Carteret walked the length of the verandah and drew up in the full glare of the moonlight.  From here he could see the curve of the shore; and, beyond the quay and esplanade and last scattered houses of the little town, the lighthouse marking the tip of the western horn of the bay.  He could hear the soft stealthy plunge and following rush of the sea up the white shelving beach.  Could hear also—­less soothing sound—­through the open windows of the drawing-room of the Pavilion, just across the garden, Marshall Wace singing, with all the impassioned fervour of his rich and well-trained baritone, a ballad, then much in vogue, entitled “The Lost Chord.”  The words, to Carteret’s thinking, were futile, meaning anything, everything, or nothing, according to your private interpretation of them.  But as to the fine quality and emotional appeal of the voice there could not be two opinions, as it palpitated thus in the mild night air.  Was Damaris Verity a member of the singer’s devout audience?  Were her hands among those which now enthusiastically applauded the conclusion of the song?  Under his breath, slowly, gently but most comprehensively, Carteret swore.  And felt all the better for that impious exercise, even amused at this primitive expression of his moral and sentimental disturbance, and so on the high-road, as he fondly imagined, to capture his habitual attitude of charity and tolerance once again.  But heaven had further trial of his fortitude and magnanimity, not to say his good honest horse sense, in store to-night.

For, as the clapping of hands died down, the whisper of a woman’s dress, upon the asphalt of the verandah just behind him, caught his ear, and Damaris came rapidly towards him.

“So you are here after all, dear Colonel Sahib,” she cried.  “I felt you were when I was down there looking at the fountain.  It sort of pulled at me with remindings of you ages and ages ago, in the gardens of the club at Bhutpur—­when you brought me a present—­a darling little green jade elephant in a sandalwood box, as a birthday gift from Henrietta.  Later there was a terrible tragedy.  An odious little boy broke my elephant, on purpose, and broke my heart along with it.”