“And what is the meaning of these, then,” she asked, “you sweetly deceiving little puss!”

It was cleverly done, she flattered herself.  She asserted nothing, implied much, putting the onus of admission or denial upon Damaris.  The answer came with grave and unhesitating directness.

“Colonel Carteret gave them to me.”

“So I imagined.  They are the exquisite fruit, aren’t they, of the little expedition by train of two days ago?”

Damaris’ temper rose, but so did her protective instinct.  For that journey to Marseilles, connected as it was with the dear secret of Darcy Faircloth, did not admit of investigation by Henrietta.

“About where and when Colonel Carteret may have got them for me, I know nothing,” she returned.  “He left them to be given to me last night after he went.”

She unclasped the necklace.

“They are very lovely pearls, aren’t they?  Pray look at them if you care to, Henrietta,” she said.

Thus at once invited and repulsed—­for that it amounted to a repulse she could not but acknowledge—­Mrs. Frayling advised herself a temporary retreat might be advisable.  She therefore discoursed brightly concerning pearls and suchlike costly frivolities.  Inwardly covetousness consumed her, since she possessed no personal ornament of even approximate value.

The conversation drifted.  She learned the fact of Miss Felicia’s projected arrival, and deplored her own approaching exile the less.  Only once, long ago, had she encountered Miss Verity.  The memory afforded her no satisfaction, for that lady’s peculiar brand of good breeding and—­as she qualified it—­imbecility, did not appeal to her in the least.  There was matter of thankfulness, therefore, she had not elected to join Sir Charles and Damaris sooner.  She would undoubtedly have proved a most tiresome and impeding element.  Unless—­here Henrietta’s mind darted—­unless she happened to take a fancy to Marshall.  Blameless spinsters, of her uncertain age and of many enthusiasms, did not infrequently very warmly take to him—­in plain English, fell over head and ears in love with him, poor things, though without knowing it, their critical faculty being conspicuous by its absence where their own hearts were concerned.—­By the way that was an idea!—­Swiftly Henrietta reviewed the possibilities it suggested.—­As an ally, an auxiliary, Miss Felicia might be well worth cultivation.  Would it not be diplomatic to let Marshall stay on at the Hotel de la Plage by himself for a week or so?  The conquest of Miss Felicia might facilitate another conquest on which her—­Henrietta’s—­mind was set.  For such mature enamoured virgins, as she reflected, are almost ludicrously selfless.  To ensure the happiness of the beloved object they will even donate to him their rival.—­Yes—­distinctly an idea!  But before attempting to reduce it to practice, she must make more sure of her ground in another direction.