Her thoughts ranged out to the other members of her little local court—­to Peregrine Ditton and Harry Ellice, to Marshall Wace.  Had they personal experience of this disquieting matter?  Was it conceivable the boys’ silly rivalries and jealousies concerning her took their rise in this?  Did it inspire the fervour of Marshall Wace’s singing, his flattering dependence on her sympathy?—­Suspicion widened.  Everywhere she seemed to find hint and suggestion of this—­no, she wouldn’t too distinctly define it.  Let it remain nameless.—­Everywhere, except in respect of her father and of her brother.  There she could spend her heart in peace.  She sighed with a sweetness of relief, unclasping her hands, raising her fixed, bowed head.

The hotel, meanwhile, was sensibly in act of coming awake.  Doors opened, voices called.  From the other side of the corridor sounded poor little Mrs. Titherage’s hacking cough, increasing to a convulsive struggle before, the fit at last passing off, it sunk into temporary quiescence.  Andre, the stout, middle-aged valet de chambre, hummed snatches of gay melody as he rubbed and polished the parquet flooring without.  These noises, whether cheerful or the contrary, were at least ordinary enough.  By degrees they gained Damaris’ ear, drawing her mind from speculation regarding the nature, origin, prevalence and ethics of love.  Soon Pauline, the chamber-maid, would bring her breakfast-tray, coffee and rolls, those pale wafer-like pats of butter which taste so good, and thin squares of beetroot sugar which are never half as sweet as one would like.  Would bring hot water and her bath, too, and pay her some nicely turned little compliment as to the becoming effect of her night’s sleep.—­Everything would pick itself up, in short, and go on, naturally and comfortably just as before.

Before what?

Damaris straightened the hem of the sheet over the billowing edge of flowered down quilt; and, while so doing, her hand came in contact both with the mirror and the open jewel-case.  She looked at this last with an expression bordering on reproach, unfastened the pearls from her throat, and laid them on the wadded, cream-coloured velvet lining.  She delighted to possess them and deplored possessing them in the same breath.  They spoke to her too freely and conclusively, told her too much.  She would rather not have acquired this knowledge either of Carteret or of herself.—­If it really were knowledge?—­Again she repeated the question, arising from the increasing normality of surrounding things—­Before what?

For when all was said and done, the dear man with the blue eyes had veritably and very really departed.  Throughout the night his train had been rushing north-north-westward to Paris, to England, to that Norfolk manor-house of his, where his sister, his nephews, all his home interests and occupations awaited him.  What proof had she that more intimate and romantic affairs did not await him there, or thereabouts, also?  Had