Mary stepped across to the bed and doubled back the quilt, preparatory to turning down the fine linen sheet.  She felt she had extracted herself from a somewhat invidious position with flying colours; and, in the process, had administered timely advice.  For it wasn’t suitable Miss Damaris should be moping alone upstairs at odd times like this.  It all came of yesterday’s upset.—­Her righteous anger blazed against the clerical culprit.  In that connection there was other matter of which she craved to deliver herself—­refreshing items of local gossip, sweet as honey to the mouth did she but dare retail them.  She balanced the question this way and that.  Would satisfaction outweigh offence, or offence satisfaction, on the part of Miss Damaris?  You could not be sure how she’d take things—­quite.  And yet she ought to know, for the affair certainly placed Captain Faircloth in a pleasant light.  Only one who was every inch a gentleman would behave so handsomely as he had.

She stretched across the bed to smooth the slightly wrinkled surface of the sheet.  This gymnastic feat necessitated the averting of her face and turning of her back.

“There’s a fine tale going round of how the Island lads—­wild young fellows ready for any pranks—­served Mr. Sawyer, the curate,” she began.  “They say William Jennifer put them up to it, having a grudge against him for trying to get his youngest boy taken up for stealing apples last week.  They planned to give him a ducking in the pool just above the ferry, where the water’s so deep under the bank.  And if Captain Faircloth hadn’t happened to come along, for certain they’d have made Mr. Sawyer swim for it.  Mr. Patch hears they handled him ever so rough, tore his coat, and were on the very tick of pitching him in.  But Captain Faircloth would not suffer it.  He took a very high line with them, it is said.  And not content with getting Mr. Sawyer away, walked with him as far as the Grey House to protect him from any further interference.”

She gave the pillows sundry judicious strokings and pats.

“I hope Mr. Sawyer’s properly thankful, for it isn’t many that would have shown him so much leniency as that.”

She would have enjoyed labouring the point.  But comment appeared to her, under the circumstances, to trench on impertinence.  Facts spoke for themselves.  She restrained herself, fetched her candlestick from the dressing-table, and stood by the open door, thereby enjoining her young lady’s exit.

Thus far Damaris maintained silence, but in passing out on to the landing, she said—­“Thank you.  I am glad to know what has happened.”

Encouraged by which acknowledgment, the excellent woman ventured further advice.

“And now, miss, you must please just lie down on the schoolroom sofa and get a little sleep before the gentlemen and Mr. Hordle arrive back.  There is a good two hours to wait yet, and I’ll call you in plenty of time for you to dress.  You don’t look altogether yourself, miss.  Too much talking with all that host of callers.  You are properly fagged out.  I’ll get Mrs. Cooper to beat up an egg for you in a tumbler of hot milk, with a tablespoonful of sherry and just a pinch of sugar in it.  That will get your circulation right.”