This she recognized, though less by reasoning than by instinct; and so found herself compelled to search deeper for the cause of her recent disgrace.  Not that she willingly prosecuted that search; but that the subject pursued her, simply refusing to leave her alone.  Continually it presented itself to her mind, and always with the same call for escape, the same foreboding of some danger against which she must provide.  Always, too, it seemed to hinge upon Tom Verity’s visit, and something in her relation to the young man himself which she could not define.  She revolved the question now—­Theresa being safely packed off to her tea-party—­in shade of the ilex trees, with solemn eyes and finely serious face.

There was not anything unusual in receiving visitors at The Hard.  Men came often to see her father, and she took her share in entertaining all such comers as a matter of course.  Some she “didn’t much care about,” some she liked.  But, with the exception of Colonel Carteret from childhood her trusted friend and confidant, their coming and going was just part of the accustomed routine, a survival from the life at the Indian summer palace of long ago, and made no difference.  Yet, though she was still uncertain whether she did like Tom Verity or not, his coming and going had indisputably made a difference.  It marked, indeed, a new departure in her attitude and thought.  Her world, before his advent, was other than that in which she now dwelt.

For one thing, Tom was much younger than the majority of her father’s guests—­a man not made but still early in the making, the glamour of promise rather than the stark light of finality upon him.  This affected her; for at eighteen, a career, be it never so distinguished, which has reached its zenith, in other words reached the end of its tether, must needs have a touch of melancholy about it.  With the heat of going on in your own veins, the sight of one who has no further go strikes chill to the heart.  And so, while uncertain whether she quite trusted him or not, Damaris—­until the unlucky running away episode—­had taken increasing pleasure in this new cousin’s company.  It both interested and diverted her.  She had not only felt ready to talk to him; but,—­surprising inclination!—­once the ice of her natural reserve broken, to talk to him about herself.

Half-shyly she dwelt upon his personal appearance.—­A fine head and clever face, the nose astute, slightly Jewish in type, so she thought.  His eyes were disappointing, too thickly brown in colour, too opaque.  They told you nothing, were indeed curiously meaningless; and, though well set under an ample brow, were wanting in depth and softness owing to scantiness of eyelash.  But his chin satisfied her demands.  It was square, forcible, slightly cleft; and his mouth, below the fly-away reddish moustache, was frankly delightful.—­Damaris flushed, smiling to herself now as she recalled his smile.  Whereupon the humiliation of that thrice