And at that, by natural transition, her thought turned from Tom Verity to fix itself upon the one other possible witness of her ignominy—­namely, the young master mariner who, coming ashore in Proud, the lobster-catcher’s cranky boat, had walked up the shifting shingle to the crown of the ridge and stood watching her, in silence, for a quite measurable period, before passing on his way down to the ferry.  For, from her first sight of him, had he not seemed to evoke that same sense of remembrance, to be, like the reek off the mud-flats, already well-known, something given back to her rather than newly discovered?  She was still ignorant as to who ho was or where he came from, having been far too engrossed by mortification to pay any attention to the conversation between her cousin and Jennifer during their little voyage down the tide-river, and having disdained to make subsequent enquiries.—­She had a rooted dislike to appear curious or ask questions.—­But now, reviewing the whole episode, it broke in on her that the necessity for escape and foreboding of danger, which culminated in her flight, actually dated from the advent of this stranger rather than from Tom’s request for enlightenment concerning unaccountable noises heard in the small hours.

Damaris slipped her feet down off the leg-rest, and sat upright, tense with the effort to grasp and disentangle the bearings of this revelation.  Was her search ended?  Had she indeed detected the cause of her discomfiture; or only pushed her enquiry back a step further, thus widening rather than limiting the field of speculation?  For what conceivable connection, as she reflected, could the old lobster-catcher’s passenger have with any matter even remotely affecting herself!

Then she started, suddenly sensible of a comfortable, though warmly protesting, human voice and presence at her elbow.

“Yes, you may well look astonished, Miss Damaris.  I know how late it is, and have been going on like anything to Lizzie over her carelessness.  Mrs. Cooper’s walked up the village with Laura about some extra meat that’s wanted, and when I came through for your tea if that girl hadn’t let the kitchen fire right out!—­Amusing herself down in the stable-yard, I expect, Mrs. Cooper being gone.—­And the business I’ve had to get a kettle to boil!”

Verging on forty, tall, dark, deep-bosomed and comely, a rich flush on her cheeks under the clear brown skin thanks to a kitchen fire which didn’t burn and righteous anger which did, Mary Fisher, the upper housemaid, set a tea-tray upon the garden table beside Damaris’ chair.

“That’s what comes of taking servants out of trades-peoples’ houses,” she went on, as she marshalled silver tea-pot and cream-jug—­embossed with flamboyant many-armed Hindu deities—­hot cakes, ginger snaps and saffron-sprinkled buns.  “You can’t put any real dependence on them, doing their work as suits themselves just anyhow and anywhen.  Mrs. Cooper and I knew how it would be well enough when Miss Bilson engaged Lizzie Trant and Mr. Hordle said the same.  But it wasn’t one atom of use for us to speak.  The Miss Minetts recommended the girl—­so there was the finish of it.  And that’s at the bottom of your being kept waiting the best part of a hour for your tea like this, Miss.”