He came over and sat down upon the stone bench beside Damaris.

“Dear witch,” he said slowly, “this, if I apprehend it aright, is a little staggering.  Forgive me—­I did altogether, and I am afraid rather crassly, misunderstand.  But that I could hardly help, since no remotest hint of this matter has ever reached me until now.”

Damaris let her hand drop, palm upwards, upon the cool, slightly rough, surface of the seat.  Carteret placed the folded letter in it, and so doing, let his hand quietly close down over hers—­not in any sense as a caress, but as assurance of a sympathy it was forbidden him, in decency and loyalty, to speak.  For a while they both remained silent.  Damaris was first to move.  She put the letter back into the breast-pocket of her jacket.

“I am glad you know, Colonel Sahib,” she gravely said.  “You see how difficult it has all been.”

“I see—­yes”—­

After a pause, the girl spoke again.

“I only came to know it myself at the end of last summer, quite by accident.  I was frightened and tried not to believe.  But there was no way of not believing.  I had lost my way in the mist out on the Bar.  I mistook the one for the other—­my brother, I mean, for”—­

Damaris broke off, her voice failing her.

“Yes,” Carteret put in gently, supportingly.

He leaned back, his arms crossed upon his breast, his head carried slightly forward, slightly bent, as he watched the softly sparkling line of surf, marking the edge of the plunging waves upon the sloping shore.  Vicarious shame claimed him still.  He weighed man’s knowledge, man’s freedom of action, man’s standards of the permissible and unpermissible as against those of this maiden, whose heart was at once so much and so little awake.

“For my father,” she presently went on.  “But still I wanted to deny the truth.  I was frightened at it.  For if that was true so much else—­things I had never dreamed of until then—­might also be true.  I wanted to get away, somehow.  But later, after I had been ill, and my father let him come and say good-bye to me before he went to sea, I saw it all differently, and far from wanting to get away I only longed that we might always be together as other brothers and sisters are.  But I knew that wasn’t possible.  I was quite happy, especially after you came with us, Colonel Sahib, out here.  Then I had this letter and the longing grew worse than ever.  I did try to school myself into not wanting, not longing—­did silly things—­frivolous things, as I told you.  But I can’t stop wanting.  It all came to a head, somehow to-night, with the dancing and music, and those foolish boys quarrelling over me—­and then your showing me that—­instead of being faithful to my father, I have neglected him.”

“Ah, you poor sweet dear!” Carteret said, greatly moved and turning to her.

In response she leaned towards him, her face wan in the expiring moonlight, yet very lovely in its pleading and guileless affection.