He smiled at her, delightfully ingratiating, assaugingly apologetic.

“Shall I own it?—­one which, frankly, struck me as a little upsetting and the reverse of pleasant.”

“Weren’t you comfortable?  I am so sorry,” Damaris exclaimed, instincts of hospitality instantly militant.  “What was wrong?  You should have called someone—­rung for Hordle.  What was it?”

“No—­no—­my dear Damaris, don’t vex yourself I entreat you.  I was in clover, luxuriously comfortable.  You’ve allotted me a fascinating room and perfect dream of a bed.  I feel an ungrateful wretch for so much as mentioning this matter to you after the way in which you have indulged me.  Only something rather extraordinary really did happen, of which I honestly confess I am still expiring to find a reasonable and not too humiliating explanation.  For, though I blush to own it”—­

He laughed softly, humping up his shoulders after the manner of a naughty small boy dodging a well-merited box on the ear.—­

“Yes, I blush to own it, but I was frightened, downright frightened.  I quailed and I quaked.  The sight of Sir Charles stepping out of the study window filled me with abject rapture.  Metaphorically speaking, my craven soul squirmed at his heels.  He was to me as a strong tower and house of defence.—­But look here, Damaris, joking apart, tell me weren’t you disturbed, didn’t you hear any strange noises last night?”

“No, none.”  She hesitated, then with evident reluctance—­“I sleep in the new wing of the house.”

“Which you imply, might make a difference?” Tom asked.

“The older servants would tell you that it does.”

“And you agree with them?”

Damaris had a moment of defective courage.

“I would rather not discuss the subject, cousin Tom,” she said and moved away down over the shifting shingle.

At first her progress was sober, even stately.  But soon, either from the steep, insecure nature of the ground or from less obvious and material cause, her pace quickened until it became a run.  She ran neatly, deftly, all of a piece as a boy runs, no trace of disarray or feminine floundering in her action.  More than ever, indeed, did she appear a fine nymph-like creature; so that, watching her flight Tom Verity was touched alike with self-reproach and admiration.  For he had succeeded in asserting himself beyond his intention.  Had overcome, had worsted her; yet, as it occurred to him, won a but barren victory.  That she was alienated and resentful he could hardly doubt, while the riddle he had rather meanly used to procure her discomfiture remained unanswered as ever, dipped indeed only deeper in mystery.  He was hoist with his own petard, in short; and stood there nonplussed, vexed alike at himself and at circumstance.