“I dislike saying such disagreeable things to you, but it can’t be avoided.  It would be cowardly of me not to tell you the truth.—­You shall have the brougham the day after to-morrow, and I’ll write to Miss Minett in the morning, and tell her you will call for her and her sister, on your way to Marychurch, and that you will bring them back at night.  I will give Patch his orders myself, so that there may be no confusion.  And I will subscribe a pound to the expenses of the choir treat.  That is all I can promise in the way of help.”

“But—­but—­Damaris, think of the position in which you place me!  I cannot be thrust aside thus.  I will not submit.  It is so humiliating, so—­so—­I offered the horses.  I told the vicar he might consider it settled about the extra brake”—­

“I know.  That was a mistake.  You had no right to make such an offer.”

For justice must take its course.  Theresa must be saved from herself.  Still her implacable young saviour, in proportion as victory appeared assured, began to feel sad.  For it grew increasingly plain that Theresa was not of the stuff of which warriors, any more than saints, are made.  Stand up to her and she collapsed like a pricked bubble.—­So little was left, a scum of colourless soap suds, in which very certainly there is no fight.  Again she showed a pitiful being, inviting chivalrous forbearance.

“You are very hard,” she lamented, “and you are always inclined to side with the servants against me.  You seem to take pleasure in undermining my influence, while I am so ready and anxious to devote myself to you.  You know there is nothing, nothing I would not do for you and—­and for Sir Charles.”

Theresa choked, coughed, holding her handkerchief to her eyes.

“And what reward do I meet with?” she asked brokenly.  “At every turn I am thwarted.  But you must give way in this case, Damaris.  Positively you must.  I cannot allow myself to be publicly discredited through your self-will.  I promised the horses for the extra brake.  The offer was made and accepted—­accepted, you understand, actually accepted.  What will the vicar say if the arrangement is upset?  What will every one think?”

Damaris pushed her chair back from the table and rose to her feet.—­Forbearance wore threadbare under accusation and complaint.  No, Theresa was not only a little too abject, but a little too disingenuous, thereby putting herself beyond the pale of rightful sympathy.  Even while she protested devotion, self looked out seeking personal advantage.  And that devotion, in itself, shocked Damaris’ sense of fitness where it involved her father.  It wasn’t Theresa’s place to talk of devotion towards him!