IN WHICH THE PAST LAYS AN OMINOUS HAND ON THE PRESENT

Down here on the shore, in the serene morning atmosphere, voices carried with peculiar distinctness.  Every word of the brief colloquy had reached Tom Verity; and one word at least possessed an Elizabethan flavour forbidden to ears Victorian, feminine and polite.  Noting it Tom reddened and glanced uneasily at his companion, all inclination to tease giving place to a laudable desire to shield her from annoyance.  But Damaris, judging by her demeanour, was unaware of any cause of offence; whence, with relief he concluded that either she had not heard, or that the rank expression conveyed nothing intelligible to her mind.

Her open hand pressed down upon the rough surface of the pebbles, she leaned a little backward, her lithe body twisted sideways from the waist, while she scrutinized the man upon the sands below.  And that the latter presented a gallant and even distinguished appearance, though arrayed in leather-peaked cap, blue serge reefer jacket and trousers which had evidently seen service, Tom could not but admit, as he stood just clear of the ripples of incoming tide staring idly after the receding boat with its cargo of black ribbed skeleton lobster-pots.—­A spirited-looking, well-made fellow, no doubt; merchant captain or more probably mate—­Tom took him to be about eight-and-twenty—­but in an altogether different rank of life to themselves and therefore a quite unsuitable object for prolonged and earnest attention.  His advent should be treated as an accident, not elevated thus to the importance of an event.  It was not quite good taste on Damaris’ part Tom felt; and he made a show of rising, saying as he did so, by way of excuse: 

“It is wonderfully charming out here.  I am loath to break up our little tete-a-tete; but time waits for no man, worse luck, and if I am to catch my train I must start directly after luncheon.  Sir Charles was good enough to promise me various letters of introduction to persons in, high places.  He told me to remind him about them.  I don’t want to be greedy but I should like those letters.  Perhaps I ought to be getting back so as to see your father about them.”

But before Damaris had time to collect her thoughts and reply, the man in the peaked cap had further asserted his presence.  Either becoming conscious of her observation, or caught by something in Tom Verity’s speech, he wheeled round and looked up at the two in swift, almost haughty, enquiry.  To Tom he vouchsafed little more than a glance, but upon Damaris his eyes fastened.  For a good minute he stared at her, as though in some sort holding her to ransom.  Then with an upward jerk of the head and an ejaculation, half smothered oath, half sharp laughter—­as of one who registers eminently ironic conclusions—­he began deliberately ascending the slope.