After tea, Miss Felicia having vanished on some affair of her own—­Damaris asked no question, but supposed it not unconnected with the now, since Sir Charles was about to return, permanently exiled Theresa—­our maiden went upstairs, in the tender evening light, on domestic cares intent.  She wished to assure herself that the chintz bedroom, opening off the main landing and overlooking the lawn and front garden, had been duly made ready for Colonel Carteret.  She took a somewhat wistful pleasure in silently ministering to his possible small needs in the matter of sufficient wealth of towels, candles and soap.  She lengthened out the process.  Lingered, rearranged the ornaments upon the mantelpiece, the bunch of sweet-leafed geranium—­as yet unshrivelled by frost—­and belated roses, placed in a vase upon the toilet-table.

In so doing she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, and paused, studying it.  Her looks were not at their best.  She was wan.—­That might, in part, be owing to the waning light.  Around her eyes were dark circles, making them appear unnaturally large and solemn.  So yesterday’s emotions had left their mark!  The nervous strain had been considerable and she showed it.  One cannot drink the cup of shame, however undeserved, with physical any more than with mental impunity.  She still felt a little shattered, but hoped neither her father nor Carteret would remark her plight.  If the whole affair of yesterday could, in its objectionable aspects, be kept from Sir Charles’s knowledge she would be infinitely glad.  And why shouldn’t it be?  Without permission, Aunt Felicia certainly would not tell.  Neither would the servants.  The parish had given testimony, this afternoon, both of its good faith and its discretion.

So much for the objectionable side of the matter.  But there was another side, far from objectionable, beautiful in sentiment and in promise.  And, still viewing her reflection in the glass, she saw her eyes lose their solemnity, lighten with a smile her lips repeated.  This was where Carteret’s advice would be of so great value.  How much ought she to tell her father of all that?

For, from amidst the shame, the anger, the strain and effort, Faircloth showed, to her thinking, triumphant, satisfying alike to her affection and her taste.  In no respect would she have asked him other than he was.

She moved across to the window, and sat down there, looking out over the garden and battery, with its little cannons, to the Bar, and sea beyond which melted into the dim primrose and silver of the horizon.  Such colour as existed was soft, soothing, the colour of a world of dreams, of subdued and voiceless fancies.  It was harmonious, restful as an accompaniment to vision.—­Damaris let it lap against her consciousness, encircling, supporting this, as water laps, also encircling and supporting—­while caressing, mysteriously whispering against a boat’s side—­a boat lying at its moorings, swinging gently upon an even keel.—­And her vision was of Faircloth, exclusively of him, just now.