“Yes, in his arms, Miss.  How else would you have had him carry her?—­And, as gentle and careful as any woman could, too—­into the house and right upstairs here”—­pointing along the passage as if veritably beholding the scene once more—­“and into her own bedroom.”

“How shocking.  How extremely improper!”

Theresa beat her fat little hands hysterically together.  She credited herself with emotions of the most praiseworthy and purest; ignorant that the picture conjured up before her provoked obscure physical jealousies, obscure stirrings of latent unsatisfied passion.  More than ever, surely, did the needle quiver back to that fixed point of most righteous anger.

“Such—­such a proceeding cannot have been necessary.  It ought not to have been permitted.  Why did not Miss Damaris walk?”

“Because she was in a dead faint, and we’d all the trouble in life to bring her round.”

“Indeed,” she said, and that rather nastily.  “I am sorry, but I cannot but believe Miss Damaris might have made an effort to walk—­with your assistance and that of Cooper, had you offered it.  As I remarked at first, someone is evidently very much to blame.  The whole matter must be thoroughly sifted out, of course.  I am disappointed, for I had great confidence in you and Cooper—­two old servants who might really have been expected to possess some idea of the—­the respect due to their master’s daughter.  What will Sir Charles say when he hears of this objectionable incident?”

“That’s just what Mrs. Cooper and I are wondering, Miss,” Mary took her up with so much meaning that Miss Bilson inwardly quailed, sensible of having committed a rather egregious blunder.  This she made efforts to repair by sheering off hurriedly on another tack.

“Not that I shall trouble Sir Charles with the matter, unless circumstances arise which compel me to do so—­as a duty.  My great object, of course, is at all times to spare him any domestic annoyance.”

She began pulling off her gloves, a new pair and tight.  Her hands were moist and the glove-fingers stuck, rendering their removal lengthy and difficult.

“To-morrow I shall have a thorough explanation with Miss Damaris and decide what action it is my duty to take after hearing her version of the events of this afternoon.  I should prefer speaking to her to-night—­”

“Miss Damaris isn’t fit to talk about anything to-night.”

Theresa pulled at the right-hand glove—­the kid gave with a little shriek, the thumb splitting out.  She was in a state of acute indecision.  Could she retire from this contest without endangering her authority, without loss of prestige, or must she insist?  She had no real wish to hasten to her ex-pupil’s bedside.  She would be glad to put off doing so, glad to wait.  She was conscious of resentment rather than affection.  And she felt afraid, unformulated suspicion, unformulated dread, again dogging her.  That Damaris was really ill,