Miss Felicia’s glance was of timid, slightly distressed, enquiry.

“Yes,” she said, “Mr. Wace has applied for the curacy.  He and General Frayling were to have an interview with Canon Horniblow this afternoon.  They dropped Mrs. Frayling here on their way to the vicarage, and sent the fly back for her.  She talked a great deal about Mr. Wace and his immense wish to come here.  She gave me to understand it was his one object to”—­

The speaker broke off, raised her thin, long-fingered hands to her forehead.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but really I feel perhaps, darling, it is better to warn you.  She implied—­oh! she did it very cleverly, really, in a way charmingly—­but she implied that things had gone very hard with Mr. Wace that winter at St. Augustin, and that all he went through has remarkably developed and strengthened his character—­that it, in fact, was what determined him to take Holy Orders.  His difficulties melted before his real need for the support of religion.  It would have all been most touching if one had heard a story of such devotion from anyone but—­but her, about anyone but him—­under the circumstances, poor young man—­because—­darling—­well, because of you.”

“Of me?” Damaris stiffened.

“Yes—­that is just the point.  Mrs. Frayling left me in no doubt.  She was determined to make me understand just what Mr. Wace’s attitude had been towards you—­and that it is still unchanged.”

Damaris got up.  Pulled off her driving coat, gloves and hat.  Threw them upon the seat of a chair.  The act was symbolic.  She felt suffocated, impelled to rid herself of every impediment.  For wasn’t she confronted with another battle—­a worse one than that with the house, namely, a battle with her long-ago baby-love, and her father’s love too—­Henrietta.—­Henrietta, so strangely powerful, so amazingly persistent—­Henrietta who enclosed you in arms, apparently so soft but furnished with suckers, octopus arms adhering, never letting you go?  She had played with the idea of this intrusion of Henrietta’s and its effect upon Miss Felicia, at first as something amusing.  It ceased to be amusing.  It frightened her.

“And my attitude is unchanged, too,” she said presently, gravely proud.  “I didn’t want to marry Marshall Wace then.  I was dreadfully sorry when Henrietta told me he cared for me.  I don’t want to marry him or have him care for me one bit more now.  I think it very interfering of Henrietta to trouble you with this.  It is not the moment.  She might at least have waited.”

“So I felt,” Miss Felicia put in.  She watched her niece anxiously, as the latter went across to the fire-place and stood, her back to the room, looking down into the glowing logs.