For a while Charles Verity let the silent communion continue.  Then, lest it should grow enervating, to either or to both, he spoke of ordinary subjects—­of poor little General Frayling’s illness, of Miss Felicia’s plans, of his own book.  It was wiser for her, better also for himself, to step back into the normal thus quietly closing the door upon their dual act of retrospective clairvoyance.

Damaris, catching his intention, responded; and if rather languidly yet loyally played up.  But, before the spell was wholly broken and frankness gave place to their habitual reserve, there was one further question she must ask if the gnawings of that false conscience, begotten in her by Henrietta’s strictures, were wholly to cease.

“Do you mind if we go back just a little minute,” she said.

“Still unsatisfied, my dear?”

“Not unsatisfied—­never again that as between us two, Commissioner Sahib.  You have made everything beautifully, everlastingly smooth and clear.”

“Then why tempt Providence, or rather human incertitude, by going back?”

“Because—­can I say it quite plainly?”

“As plainly as you will.”

“Because Henrietta tells me I have—­have flirted—­have played fast and loose with—­with more than one person.”

A pause, and the question came from above her—­her head still lying against his breast—­with a trace of severity, or was it anxiety?

“And have you?”

“Not intentionally—­not knowingly,” Damaris said.

“If that is so, is it not sufficient?”

“No—­because she implies that I have raised false hopes, and so entangled myself—­and that I ought to go further, that, as I understand her, I ought to be ready to marry—­that it is not quite honourable to withdraw.”

Charles Verity moved slightly, yet held her close.  She felt the rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed slow and deep.

“Do you want to marry?” he at last asked her.

“No,” she said, simply.  “I’d much rather not, if I can keep out of it without acting unfairly by anyone—­if you don’t agree with Henrietta, and don’t think I need.  You don’t want me to marry do you?”

“God in heaven, no,” Charles Verity answered.  He put her from him, rose and moved about the room.

“To me, the thought of giving you in marriage to any man is little short of abhorrent,” he said hoarsely.

For fear clutched him by the throat.  The gift of pearls, the little scene of last night, and Damaris’ emotion in bidding Carteret farewell, confronted him.  The idea had never occurred to him before.  Now it glared at him, or rather he glared at it.  It would be torment to say “yes”; and yet very difficult to say his best friend “nay.”  Anger kindled against Henrietta Frayling.  Must this be regarded as her handiwork?  Yet he could hardly credit it.  Or had she some other candidate—­Peregrine Ditton, young Harry Ellice?—­But they were mere boys.—­Of Marshall Wace he never thought, the young man being altogether outside his field of vision in this connection.