“It has nothing to do with that sort of loving.  It belongs to something much more beautifully part of oneself—­something of one’s very, very own, right from the very beginning.”

“Indeed!” he said, sullenly, even roughly, his habitual mansuetude giving way before this—­for so he could not but take it—­contemptuous flinging of his immense tenderness, his patient, unswerving devotion, back in his face.  “Then very certainly I must plead guilty to not understanding, or if you prefer it—­for we needn’t add to our other discomforts by quarrelling about the extra syllable—­of misunderstanding.  In my ignorance, I confess I imagined the love, which finds its crown and seal of sanctity in marriage, can be—­and sometimes quite magnificently is—­the most beautiful thing a man has to give or a woman to receive.”

Damaris stared at him, her face blank with wonder.

Set at regular intervals between the tall blue-grey painted lamp standards, for the greater enjoyment of visitors and natives, stone benches, of a fine antique pattern, adorn St. Augustin’s esplanade.  Our much-perplexed maiden turned away wearily and sat down upon the nearest of these.  She held up her head, bravely essaying to maintain an air of composure and dignity; but her shoulders soon not imperceptibly quivered, while, try hard as she might, setting her teeth and holding her breath, small plaintive noises threatened betrayal of her tearful state.

Carteret, quite irrespective of the prescience common to all true lovers where the beloved object’s welfare is concerned, possessed unusually quick and observant hearing.  Those small plaintive noises speedily reached him and pierced him as he stood staring gloomily out to sea.  Whereupon he bottled up his pain, shut down his natural and admirably infrequent anger, and came over to the stone bench.

“You’re not crying, dearest witch, are you?” he asked her.

“Yes, I am,” Damaris said.  “What else is there left for me to do?—­Everyone I care for I seem to make unhappy.  Everything I do goes wrong.  Everything I touch gets broken and spoilt somehow.”

“Endless tragedies of little green jade elephants?” he gently bantered her.

“Yes—­endless.  For now I have hurt you.  You are trying to be good and like your usual self to me; but that doesn’t take me in.  I know all through me I have hurt you—­quite dreadfully badly—­though I never, never meant to, and haven’t an idea how or why.”

This was hardly comforting news to Carteret.  He attempted no disclaimer; while she, after fumbling rather helplessly at the breast-pocket of her jacket, at last produced a folded letter and held it out to him.

“Whether it’s treacherous or not, I am obliged to tell you,” she said, with pathetic desperation.  “For I can’t bear any more.  I can’t but try my best to keep you, Colonel Sahib.  And now you are hurt, I can only keep you by making you understand—­just everything.  You may still think me wrong; but anyhow my wrongness will be towards somebody else, not towards you.—­So please read this, and don’t skip, because every word helps to explain.  Read it right through before you ask me any questions—­that’s more fair all round.—­If you go across there—­under the lamp, I mean—­there still is light enough, I think, for you to be able to see.”