Later, Mary bringing more favourable news of Sir Charles—­pain and suffocation having yielded for the time being to McCabe’s treatment—­Carteret persuaded her to go upstairs and let the said Mary put her to bed.  Once there she slept the sleep of exhaustion, fatigue and sorrow mercifully acting as a soporific, her capacity for further thought or feeling literally worn out.

During that session in the drawing-room Damaris, to his thankfulness, had asked no questions of him.  All she demanded child-like, in her extremity, had been the comfort and security of human contact.  And this he gave her simply, ungrudgingly, with a high purity of understanding, guiltless of any shadow of embarrassment or any after-thought.  Their lighter, somewhat enigmatic relation of the earlier evening was extinguished, swamped by the catastrophe of Charles Verity’s illness.  Exactly in how far she gauged the gravity of that illness and its only too likely result, or merely wept, unnerved by the distressing outward aspect of it, Carteret could not determine.  But he divined, and rightly, that she was in process of ranging herself, at least subconsciously, with a new and terrible experience which, could she learn the lesson of it aright would temper her nature to worthy issues.

Hence, with a peculiar and tender interest, he watched her when, coming down in the morning, he found her already in the dining-room, the pleasant amenities of a well-ordered, hospitable house and household abundantly evident.

Whatever the tragic occurrences of the last twelve hours, domestic discipline was in no respect relaxed.  The atmosphere of the room distilled a morning freshness.  Furniture and flooring shone with polish, a log fire, tipped by dancing flames, burned in the low wide grate.  Upon the side-table, between the westward facing windows, a row of silver chafing-dishes gave agreeable promise of varied meats; as did the tea and coffee service, arrayed before Damaris, of grateful beverage.  While she herself looked trim, and finished in white silk shirt and russet-red suit, her toilet bearing no sign of indifference or of haste.

That her complexion matched her shirt in colour—­or rather in all absence of it—­that her face was thin, its contours hardened, her eyebrows drawn into a little frown, her eyes enormous, sombre and clouded as with meditative thought, increased, in Carteret’s estimation, assurance of her regained self-mastery and composure.  Nor did a reticence in her manner displease him.

“I have persuaded Aunt Felicia to breakfast upstairs,” she told him.  “Dr. McCabe sends me word he—­my father—­wishes to rest for the present, so I engaged Aunt Felicia to rest too.  She was wonderful.”

Damaris’ voice shook slightly, as did her hand lifting the coffee-pot.

“She stayed up all night.  So did you, I’m afraid, didn’t you, Colonel Sahib?”

“Oh, for me that was nothing.  A bath, a change, and ten minutes out there on the battery watching the sun come up over the sea,” Carteret said.  “So don’t waste compassion on me.  I’m as fit as a fiddle and in no wise deserve it.”