These aspects of their association affected Damaris but dimly, since speaking a language of which she barely knew the alphabet.  Carteret they took in a different measure.  He read their direction and potency with clear understanding, the insidious provocations and satisfactions of them printed in large type.  With a rush, his youth returned and troubled him.  Or was it the phantom of youth merely?  His heart-beats but the beat of a tideless sea.  He feared as much.—­Oh, these tardy harvests, these tardy harvests—­are they not to most men a plague rather than a benison, since, in honour and fine feeling, so abominably perilous to reap!

For the greater promotion of calm and of sanity he welcomed the young girl’s change of dress.  The powder-blue walking suit, with belted jacket and kilted skirt, brought her more within the terms of their ordinary intercourse.  But the impression of the fair young body, lately so close against his own, clothed in bride-like raiment, fresh as an opening flower and vaguely fragrant, could not easily be dispelled.  Strive as he might to put it from him, the impression remained recurrent.  Therefore it must not be held to Carteret’s discredit if his senses took part with his nobler affections just now, against his considered judgment; or that he fared badly at the hands of the sea-born goddess—­worshipped hero in her temple in ancient days, with music, with dance and with nameless rites of sex, when the moon rode high heaven at the full, even as to-night.

Her influence was still abroad, and in his flesh Carteret shrewdly suffered it; yet neither basely nor bestially, being clean of life and of spirit.  He whipped himself even, with rather sorry humour, seeing, in Damaris’ willingness to entrust herself thus to his sole care in the midnight loneliness, a handsomer compliment to his morals than to his manhood.  How little, bless her, she knew what stuff men are made of!—­therein underrating her acquaintance with fact, as her conversation presently and surprisingly proved to him.

The revelation began in all apparent innocence—­for: 

“I’m not ungrateful to Henrietta,” Damaris said, breaking silence softly yet abruptly, as speaking to herself rather than addressing him, in apology and argument.  “And I’m dreadfully sorry to have vexed her—­for she was vexed with me for not staying at the Pavilion to-night, as I promised.  She was really quite cross.”

“She will get over that—­never fear,” Carteret answered off the surface.

“Still it troubles me to have vexed her.  I must have seemed so unreasonable, making silly sounding excuses—­because I could not explain to her why I really wanted so much to go home.”

“You find a limit to the dear lady’s powers of comprehension or of sympathy?” he asked, again off the surface.

“I suppose I must do so, because there are things it never occurs to one to speak of to Henrietta.”

“Whole cartloads of them,” Carteret comprehensively agreed.