Then—­because general ideas, however inspiriting, are rather heavy diet for the young, immature minds growing quickly tired in the efforts to digest them—­Damaris, having reached this happy, if partially erroneous, climax of emancipation, ceased to philosophize either consciously or unconsciously.  The russet moorland and spacious landscape shut the door on her, had no more to tell her, no more to say.  Or, to be strictly accurate, was it not rather perhaps that her power of response, power to interpret their speech and assimilate their message had reached its term?  All her life the maturity of her brain had inclined—­rather fatiguingly—­to outrun the maturity of her body, so that she failed “to continue in one stay” and trivial hours trod close on the heels of hours of exaltation and of insight.

With a sigh and a sense of loss—­as though noble companions had withdrawn themselves from her—­she gathered up the reins and sent the horse forward.  She fell into comfortable friendly conversation with the Napoleonic-countenanced Patch, moreover, consulting him as to the shortest way, through the purlieus of Stourmouth, into the Marychurch high road and so home to Deadham Hard.  For, to tell the truth, she became aware she was hungry and very badly in want of her tea.

Theresa Bilson, setting out the next morning in solitary state, contrived to maintain the adopted attitude until the front gates were safely passed.  Then she relaxed and looked out of the brougham windows with a fussy brightness more consonant to the joys of impending union with the Miss Minetts and the day’s impending trip.  She made no further effort to secure Damaris’ participation in the social and educational advantages which it promised.  On the contrary she left the young lady severely alone and at home, as one administering well-merited punishment.  Thus effectively demonstrating, as she wished to believe, her personal authority; and suiting, as she would have stoutly denied, her personal convenience.  For Damaris on a string, plus the extra brake and carriage horses, was one story; Damaris on her own, minus those animals and much-debated vehicle, quite another.  Unless the presence of her ex-pupil could be made to redound to her own glory, Theresa much preferred reserving representation of The Hard and its distinguished proprietor wholly and solely to herself.  So in the spirit of pretence and of make-believe did she go forth; to find, on her return, that spirit prove but a lying and treacherous ally—­and for more reasons than one.

It happened thus.  Supported by the two brindled tabby house cats, Geraldine and Mustapha—­descendants of the numerous tribe honoured, during the last half-century of his long life, by Thomas Clarkson Verity’s politely affectionate patronage—­Damaris spent the greater part of the morning in the long writing room.