During the course of that meal she explained how she had really quite failed to observe the hour when she left the Grey House.  Commander and Mrs. Battye were at tea there; and the vicar—­Dr. Horniblow—­looked in afterwards.  There was quite a little meeting, in fact, to arrange the details of the day after to-morrow’s choir treat.  A number of upper-class parishioners, she found, were anxious to embrace this opportunity of visiting Harchester, and inspecting the Cathedral and other sights of that historic city, under learned escort.  It promised to be a most interesting and instructive expedition, involving moreover but moderate cost.—­And every one present—­Theresa bridled over her salmon cutlet and oyster sauce—­everyone seemed so anxious for her assistance and advice.  The vicar deferred to her opinion in a quite pointed manner; and spoke, which was so nice of him, of her known gift of organization.  “So we claim not only your sympathy, Miss Bilson, but your active co-operation,” he had said.  “We feel The Hard should be officially represented.”

Here the speaker became increasingly self-conscious and blushed.

“What could I do, therefore, but remain even at the risk of being a trifle late for dinner?” she asked.  “It would have been so extremely uncivil to the Miss Minetts to break up the gathering by leaving before full agreement as to the arrangements had been reached.  I felt I must regard it as a public duty, under the circumstances.  I really owed it to my position here, you know, Damaris, to stay to the last.”

It may be observed, in passing, that Miss Bilson was fond of food and made a good deal of noise in eating, particularly when, as on the present occasion, she combined that operation with continuous speech.  This may account for Damaris bestowing greater attention on the manner than the matter of her ex-governess’ communications.  She was sensible that the latter showed to small advantage being rather foolishly excited and elate, and felt vexed the maids should hear and see her behaving thus.  It could hardly fail to lower her in their estimation.

As to the impending parochial invasion of Harchester—­during the earlier stages of dinner Damaris hardly gave it a second thought, being still under the empire of impressions very far removed from anything in the nature of choir treats.  She still beheld the fiery glare of an expiring sunset, and against the ensuing pallor of sea and sky a leaden-hued human, figure strangely, almost portentously evident.  That it appeared noble in pose and in outline, even beautiful, she could not deny.  But that somehow it frightened her, she could equally little deny.  So it came about that once again, as Mary and her satellite Laura silently waited at table, and as Theresa very audibly gobbled food in and words out, Damaris shrank within herself seeming to hear a shrill sweet whistling and the shatter of loose pebbles and shifting shingle under Faircloth’s pursuing feet.