For she had—­or rather ought she not to have?—­another communication to make which involved the fighting of a battle on her own account, not against Henrietta Frayling, still less against Damaris, but against herself.  It trembled on the tip of her tongue.  She felt impelled, yet sorrowed to utter it.  Hence her wishes and purposes jostled one another, being tenderly, bravely, heroically even, contradictory.  In speaking she invited the shattering of a dream of personal election to happiness—­a late blossoming happiness and hence the more entrancing, the more pathetic.  That any hope of the dream’s fulfilment was fragile as glass, lighter than gossamer, the veriest shadow of a shade, her natural diffidence and sane sense, alike, convinced her.  For this very cause, the dream being of the sweetest and most intimate, how gladly would she have cherished the enchanting foolishness of it a trifle longer!—­Her act of heroism would earn no applause, moreover, would pass practically unnoticed.  No one would be aware of her sacrifice.  She would only gain the satisfaction of knowing she had done the perfectly right and generous thing by two persons who would never share that knowledge.—­She blushed.—­Heaven forbid they ever should share it—­and thank her.

“Mrs. Frayling—­I don’t want”—­

Miss Felicia stopped.

“What don’t you want?”—­This from Damaris over her shoulder, the pause being prolonged.

“To set you against her, darling”—­

“I think,” Damaris said, “I know all about Henrietta.”

“She insinuates so much,” Miss Felicia lamented.—­“Or seems to do so.  One grows wretchedly suspicious of her meaning.  Perhaps I exaggerate and misjudge her.—­She is quite confusingly adroit; but I extremely disliked the way in which she spoke of Colonel Carteret.”

Damaris bent a little forward, holding her skirt back from the scorch of the fire, her eyes still downcast.

“How did she speak of him?”

“Oh! all she said was very indirect—­but as though he had not played quite fair with her on some occasion.  And—­it’s odious to repeat!—­as if that was his habit with women, and with unmarried girls as well—­as if he was liable to behave in a way which placed them in a rather invidious position while he just shuffled out of all responsibility himself.  She hinted his staying on with us here was a case in point—­that it might give people a wrong idea altogether.  That, in short—­at least thinking it over I feel sure this is the impression she meant to convey to me—­that he is indulging his chronic love of philandering at your expense.”

“And thereby standing in the light of serious lovers such as Marshall Wace?”

After a moment Damaris added: 

“Is that your idea of Colonel Carteret, Aunt Felicia?”

“Ah!  No, indeed no,” the poor lady cried, with rather anguished sincerity.  Then making a fine effort over herself: 

“Least of all where you are concerned, my darling.”