In the servants’ pew directly behind, Mary and Mrs. Cooper were duly ensconced, supported by Mr. Patch, two small male Patches, white-collared and shining with excess of cleanliness, wedged in between him and his stable sub-ordinate Conyers, the groom.  The Hard thus made a commendably respectable show, as Damaris reflected with satisfaction.

She stood, she knelt, her prayer book open upon the carved margin of the tomb, the slender crossed legs and paws of the alert little marble dog serving as so often before for bookrest.  Canon Horniblow boomed and droned, like some unctuous giant bumble-bee, from the reading-desk.  The choir intoned responses from the gallery with liberal diversity of pitch.  And presently, alas!  Damaris’ thoughts began to wander, making flitting excursions right and left.  For half-way through the litany some belated worshipper arrived, causing movement in the men’s free seats.  This oddly disturbed her.  Her mind flew again to Faircloth, and the strange impression of her own soul’s return declaring this and no other to be his actual neighbourhood.  And if it indeed were so?—­Damaris thrust back the emotions begotten of that question, as unpermissibly stormy at this time and in this place.

She tried to fix her thoughts wholly upon the office.  But, all too soon they sprang aside again, now circling about the enigmatic back beheld in the Miss Minetts’ pew.  Of whom did that round, dressy little form remind her?  Why—­why—­of Theresa, of course.  Not Theresa, genius and saint of Spanish Avila; but Theresa Bilson, her sometime governess-companion of doubtfully amiable memory.  She longed to satisfy herself, but could only do so by turning round and looking squarely—­a manoeuvre impossible during the prayers, but which might be accomplished later, when the congregation rose to sing the hymn before the sermon.

She must wait.  And during that waiting light, rather divertingly, broke in on her.  For supposing her belief as to the lady’s identity correct, must not dear Aunt Felicia be party to this resurrection?  Had not she known, and stolen forth this morning to perfect some innocent plot of peace-making?  In furtherance of which she now cunningly remained at home, thus leaving Damaris free to offer renewal of favour or withhold it as she pleased.  Was not that deliciously characteristic of Aunt Felicia and her permanent effort to serve two masters—­to make everybody happy, and, regardless of conflicting interests, everybody else too?—­Well, Damaris was ready to fulfil her wishes.  She bore Theresa no ill-will.  An inclination to grudge or resentment seemed to her unworthy.  Whatever Theresa’s tiresomenesses, they were over and done with, surely, quite immensely long ago.