For she visualized another going of Henrietta, a flight before the dawn.  Saw, through a thick scent-drenched atmosphere, between the expiring lamp-light and broadening day, a deserted child beating its little hands, in the extremity of its impotent anguish, upon the pillows of a disordered unmade bed.  Saw a man, too, worn and travel-stained from long riding throughout the night, lost to all decent dignities of self-control, savage with the animalism of frustrated passion, rage to and fro amidst the litter of a smart woman’s hurried packing, a trail of pale blue ribbon plucking at and tripping him entangled in the rowels of his spurs.

All this she saw; and knew that her father—­sitting on the cushioned window-seat beside her, his legs crossed, his chin sunk on his breast—­saw it also.  That he, indeed, voluntarily and of set purpose made her see, transferring the living picture from his consciousness to her own.  And, as she watched, each detail growing in poignancy and significance she—­not all at once, but gropingly, rebelliously and only by degrees—­comprehended that purpose, and the abounding love, both of herself and of justice, which dictated it.  Divining the root of her trouble and the nature of her suspicion he took this strange means to dissipate them.  Setting aside his natural pride, he caused her to look upon his hour of defeat and debasement, careless of himself if thereby he might mend her hurt and win her peace of mind.

Damaris was conquered.  Her stubbornness went down before his sacrifice.  All the generosity in her leapt forth to meet and to acclaim the signal generosity in him—­a generosity extended not only towards herself but to Henrietta Frayling as well.  This last Damaris recognized as superb.—­He bade her remember.  And, seeing in part through her own eyes, in part through his, she penetrated more deeply into his mind, into the rich diversity and, now mastered, violence of his character, than could otherwise have been possible.  She learnt him from within as well as from without.  He had been terrible—­so she remembered—­yet beautiful in his fallen god-head.  She had greatly feared him under that aspect.  Later, she more than ever loved him; and that with a provenant, protective and, baby though she was, a mothering love.  He was beautiful now; but no longer terrible, no longer fallen—­if not the god-head, yet the fine flower of his manhood royally and very sweetly disclosed.  Her whole being yearned towards him; but humbly, a note of lowliness in her appreciation, as towards something exalted, far above her in experience, in self-knowledge and self-discipline.

She was, indeed, somewhat overwhelmed, both by realization of his distinction and of her own presumption in judging him, to the point of being unable as yet to look him in the face.  So she silently laid hold of his hand, drew it down from the window-ledge and round her waist.  Slipping along the cushioned seat until she rested against him, she laid her head back upon his shoulder.  Testimony in words seemed superfluous after that shared consciousness, seemed impertinent even, an anti-climax from which both taste and insight recoiled.