Still Theresa was not so besotted but that lucid intervals now and again afflicted her.  One seized her this afternoon, as she prepared to bid Damaris good-bye.  Either conscience pricked with unusual sharpness, or the young girl’s smiling and unruffled acquiescence in her departure aroused latent alarms.  She began to excuse her action in leaving her charge thus solitary, to protest her devotion; becoming, it may be added, red and agitated in the process.  Her thick, short little fingers worked nervously on the crook handle of her white cotton umbrella.  Her round light-coloured eyes grew humid to the point of fogging the lenses of her gold-rimmed glasses.

“But why should you worry so now, just as you are starting, Billy?” Damaris reasoned, with the rather cruel logic of cool eighteen in face of hot and flustered nine-and-thirty.  “Only at luncheon you were telling me how much you always enjoy spending an afternoon at the Grey House.  I thought you looked forward so much to going.  What has happened to turn you all different, like this, at the last minute?”

“Nothing has happened exactly; but I have scruples about visiting my own friends and letting you remain alone when Sir Charles is from home.  It might appear a dereliction of duty—­as though I took advantage of his absence.”

“Nobody would think anything so foolish,” Damaris declared.  “And then you knew he would be away this week when you made the engagement.”

Theresa gulped and prevaricated.

“No, surely not—­I must have mistaken the date.”

“But you were quite happy at luncheon, and you couldn’t have mistaken the date then,” Damaris persisted.

Whereupon poor Theresa lost herself, the worthy and unworthy elements in her nature alike conspiring to her undoing.  In her distraction she sniffed audibly.  A tear ran down either side of her pink shiny nose and dropped on the folds of shepherd’s-plaid silk veiling her plump bosom.  For, with some obscure purpose of living up to her self-imposed indispensability, Miss Bilson was distinctly dressy at this period, wearing her best summer gown on every possible occasion and tucking a bunch of roses or carnations archly in her waist-belt.

“Do you think it kind to insist so much on my passing forgetfulness?” she quavered.  “The habit of criticizing and cavilling at whatever I say grows on you, Damaris, and it so increases the difficulties of my position.  I know I am sensitive, but that is the result of my affection for you.  I care so deeply, and you are not responsive.  You chill me.  As I have told dear Miss Felicia—­for I must sometimes unburden myself”—­

This hastily, as Damaris’ eyes darkened with displeasure.

—­“For the last year, ever since you have nominally been out of the schoolroom, I have seen my influence over you lessen, and especially since poor Mrs. Watson’s death”—­

“We will not talk about Nannie, please,” Damaris said quietly.