For over this piece of news our maiden could—­in its superficial aspects at all events—­lament in perfect good faith.  She proceeded to do so, eagerly embracing the opportunity to offer thanks and praise.  All Henrietta’s merits sprang into convincing evidence.  Had not her hospitality been unstinted—­the whole English colony had cause to mourn.

“But for you they’d still be staring at one another, bristling like so many strange dogs,” Damaris said.  “And you smoothed them all down so divertingly.  Oh! you were beautifully clever in that.  It was a lesson in the art of the complete hostess.  While, as for me, Henrietta, you’ve simply spoiled me.  I can never thank you enough.  Think of the amusements past counting you planned for me, the excursions you’ve let me share with you—­our delicious drives, and above all my coming-out dance.”

Whereat Mrs. Frayling disclaimingly shook her very pretty head.

“In pleasing you I have merely pleased myself, dearest, so in that there’s no merit.—­Though I do plead guilty to but languid enthusiasm for girls of your age as a rule.  Their conversation and opinions are liable to set my teeth a good deal on edge.  I have small patience, I’m afraid, at the disposal of feminine beings at once so omniscient and so alarmingly unripe.—­But you see, a certain downy owl, with saucer eyes and fierce little beak, won my heart by its beguiling ways a dozen years ago.”

“Darling Henrietta!” Damaris softly murmured; and, transported by sentiment to that earlier date when the said darling Henrietta commanded her unqualified adoration, began playing with the well-remembered bunch of trinkets depending from the long gold chain the lady wore about her neck.

Watching her, Mrs. Frayling sighed.

“Ah, my child, the thought of you is inextricably joined to other thoughts upon which I should be far wiser not to dwell—­far wiser to put from me and forget—­only they are stronger than I am—­and I can’t.”

There was a ring of honest human feeling in Henrietta Frayling’s voice for once.

“No, no—­I am more justly an object of commiseration than anyone I leave behind me at St. Augustin.”

And again she laughed, not impishly, but with a hardness altogether astonishing to her auditor.

“Think,” she cried, “of my sorry fate!—­Not only a wretchedly ailing husband on my hands, needing attention day and night, but a wretchedly disconsolate young lover as well.  For poor Marshall will be inconsolable—­only too clearly do I foresee that.—­Picture what a pair for one’s portion week in and week out!—­Whereas you, enviable being, are sure of the most inspiring society.  Everything in this quiet room”—­

She indicated the laden writing-table with a quick, flitting gesture.

“So refreshingly removed from the ordinary banal hotel salon—­is eloquent of the absorbing, far-reaching pursuits and interests amongst which you live.  Who could ask a higher privilege than to share your father’s work, to be his companion and amanuensis?”—­She paused, as emphasising the point, and then mockingly threw off—­“Plus the smart beau sabreur Carteret, as devoted bodyguard and escort, whenever you are not on duty.  To few women of your age, or indeed of any age, is Fortune so indulgent a fairy godmother as that!”