It may be remarked that our angry maiden’s mind dwelt rather upon the snub she had inflicted on Miss Verity, than upon the extensive compliment she had paid, and the challenge she had delivered, to Carteret.  Hearing her flattering declaration, his mind not unnaturally dwelt more upon the latter.  It took him like a blow, so that from bending courteously over the elder lady’s hand, he straightened himself with a jerk.  His eyes followed the imperious, sun-clad young figure, questioning and keenly alert.  To-day he had liberally enjoyed the pleasures of friendship, for Charles Verity had been largely and generously elate.  But Damaris’ outburst switched feeling and sentiment onto other lines.  They became personal.  Were her words thrown off in mere lightness of heart, or had she spoken deliberately, with intention?  It were wiser, perhaps, not to ask.  He steadied his attention on to Miss Felicia once more, but not without effort.

“You always said kind and charming things, I remember,” so he told her.  “You are good enough to say them still.”

Damaris stood by her father, upon the tiger skin before the hearth.

“Tell me, dearest?” she prayed him.

Charles Verity put his hand under her chin, turned up her face and looked searchingly at her.  Her beauty to-night was conspicuous and of noble quality.  It satisfied his pride.  Public life invited him, offering him place and power.  Ranklings of disappointment, of detraction and slight, were extinguished.  His soul was delivered from the haunting vexations of them.  He was in the saddle again, and this radiant woman-child, whom he so profoundly loved, should ride forth with him for all the world to see—­if she pleased.  That she would please he had no doubt.  Pomp and circumstance would suit her well.  She was, moreover, no slight or frothy piece of femininity; but could be trusted, amid the glamour of new and brilliant conditions, to use her judgment and to keep her head.  Increasingly he respected her character as well as her intelligence.  He found in her unswerving sense of right and wrong, sense of honour likewise.  Impetuous she might be, swift to feel and to revolt; but of tender conscience and, on occasion, royally compassionate.  Now he could give her fuller opportunity.  Could place her in circumstances admittedly enviable and prominent.  From a comparative back-water, she should gain the full stream—­and that stream, in a sense, at the flood.

Rarely, if ever, had Charles Verity experienced purer pleasure, touched a finer level of purpose and of hope than to-day, when thinking of and now when looking upon Damaris.  He thankfully appraised her worth, and in spirit bowed before it, not doatingly or weakly but with reasoned conviction.  Weighed in the balances she would not be found wanting, such was his firm belief.  For himself he accepted this recall to active participation in affairs, active service to the State, with a lofty content.  But that his daughter, in the flower of her young womanhood, would profit by this larger and more distinguished way of life, gave the said recall its deeper values and its zest.