Damaris was aware of her father’s arm passed through hers, holding her against his side with a steadying pressure, as they went together across the hall on their way to the first floor sitting-room.  Aware of poor, pretty, coughing little Mrs. Titherage’s raised eyebrows and enquiring stare, as they passed her with her coffee, cigarette, and fat, florid stock-broker husband—­who, by the way, had the grace to keep his eyes glued to the patience cards, ranged upon the small table before him, until father and daughter were a good half-way up the flight of stairs.  Later, when outwardly mistress of herself, the inclination to tears successfully conquered and her normal half-playful gravity regained, she went to her bedroom, Hordle had brought her this beguiling packet.

Inside the silver paper wrappings she found a red leather jewel case, and a note in Carteret’s singularly definite hand, character rather than script, the severe yet decorative quality of Arabic about it.

“To the dear witch,” it read, “in memory of our incomparable Henrietta’s dance, and of the midnight walk which followed it, and of our hours of pleasant sightseeing at Marseilles.”

No signature followed, only the date.

Now, sitting up in bed, while the day came into full and joyous being, Nature’s face duly decked and painted by the greatly reconciling sun, Damaris read the exquisitely written note again.  The writing in itself moved her with a certain home-sickness for the East, which it seemed in some sort to embody and from which to hail.  Then meanings she detected, behind the apparently light-hearted words, filled her with gratitude.  They reminded her gently of duties accepted, promises made.  They gathered in Faircloth, too, by implication; thus assuring her of sympathy and approval where she needed them most.

She opened the case and, taking out the string of pearls it contained, turned them about and about, examining, counting, admiring their lustre and ethereal loveliness.  They were graduated from the size of a hemp-seed, so she illustrated it, on either side the diamond clasp, to that of a marrow-fat pea.  Not all of them—­and this charmed her fancy as giving them individuality and separate life—­were faultlessly perfect; but had minute irregularities of shape, tiny dimples in which a special radiance hovered.  She clasped the necklace round her throat, and, holding up the hand-mirror, turned her head from side to side—­with pardonable vanity—­to judge and enjoy the effect.

Damaris was unlearned in the commercial value of such treasures; nor did money seem exactly a graceful or pretty thing—­in some respects our maiden was possessed of a very unworldly innocence—­to think of in connection with a present.  Still she found it impossible not to regard these jewels with a certain awe.  What the dear Colonel Sahib must have spent on them!  A small fortune she feared.  In the buying of this all-too-costly-gift, then, consisted that business transaction he had made the excuse for leaving her alone with Faircloth, upon the quay alongside which lay the Forest Queen.