With which, as requested, he returned to the rival claims of Harley Street and Harchester in respect of a consulting physician.

Carteret proved a faithful prophet, for in truth there was nothing to dread the beloved presence once entered, as Damaris thankfully registered.

The sun by now topped the hollies and shone into the study, flinging a bright slanting pathway across the dim crimson, scarlet and blue of the Turkey carpet.  Charles Verity stood, in an open bay of the great window, looking out over the garden.  Seen thus, in the still sunlight, the tall grey-clad figure possessed all its accustomed, slightly arrogant repose.  Damaris thrilled with exalted hope.  For the young are slow to admit even the verdict of fact as final.  His attitude was so natural, so unstrained and unstudied, that the message of ghostly warning yesterday evening was surely discounted; while the subsequent terror of the night, that hideous battle with pain and suffocation, became to her incredible, an evil dream from which, in grateful ecstasy, she now awoke.

Her joy found expression.

“Dearest, dearest, you sent for me.—­Is it to let me see you are really better, more beautifully recovered than they told me or I ventured to suppose?”

Her voice broke under a gladness midway between tears and laughter.

“The envious blades of Atropos’ scissors have not cut the mortal thread yet anyhow,” he answered, smiling, permitting himself the classic conceit as a screen to possible emotion.  “But we won’t build too much on the clemency of Fate.  How long she proposes to wait before closing her scissors it is idle to attempt to say.”

He laid his hands on Damaris’ shoulders.  Bent his head and kissed her upward pouted lips—­thereby hushing the loving disclaimer which rose to them.

“So we will keep on the safe side of the event, my wise child,” he continued.  “Make all our preparations and thus deny the enemy any satisfaction of taking us unawares.—­Can you write a business letter for me?”

“A dozen, dearest, if you wish,” Damaris assented eagerly.  Yet that image of the scissors stayed by her.  Already her joy was sensibly upon the wane.

“Oh! one will be sufficient, I think—­quite sufficient for this morning.”

Charles Verity turned his head, looking seaward through the tranquil sunshine.

“That Indian appointment has to be suitably thanked for and—­declined.”

Damaris drew back a step so as to gain a clearer view of him.  The hands resting on her shoulders were oddly inert, so she fancied, forceless and in temperature cold.  Even through the thickness of cloth jacket and silk shirt she was aware of their lifelessness and chill.  This roused rebellion in her.  Her instinct was for fight.  She made a return on McCabe’s suggestion regarding further advice.  She would demand a consultation, call in expert opinion.  The dear man with the blue eyes—­here her white face flushed rosy—­would manage all that for her, and compel help in the form of the last word of medical science and skill.