“Perhaps I erred in not more firmly insisting upon an immediate enquiry,” she said.  “But, at the time, alarm appeared so totally uncalled for.  I assumed, from what was told me, and from my knowledge of the strength of Damaris’ constitution, that a night’s rest would fully restore her to her usual robust state of health, and so deferred my enquiry.  The servants were excited and upset, so I felt their account might be misleading—­all they said was so confused, so far from explicit.  My position was most difficult, Sir Charles,” she assured him and incidentally, also, assured herself.  “I encountered most trying opposition, which made me feel it would be wiser to wait until this morning.  By then, I hoped, the maids would have had time to recollect themselves and recollect what is becoming towards their superiors in the way of obedience and respect.”

Charles Verity threw back his head with a movement of impatience, and looked down at her from under his eyelids—­in effect weary and a little insolent.

“We seem to be at cross purposes, Miss Bilson,” he said.  “You do not, I think quite follow my question.  I did not ask for the servants’ account of the events of yesterday—­whatever those events may have been—­but for your own.”

“Ah! it is so unfortunate, so exceedingly unfortunate,” Theresa broke out, literally wringing her hands, “but a contingency, an accident, which I could not possibly have foreseen—­I cannot but blame Damaris, Sir Charles”—­

“Indeed?” he said.

“No, truly I cannot but blame her for wilfulness.  If she had consented—­as I so affectionately urged—­to join the choir treat to Harchester, this painful incident would have been spared us.”

“Am I to understand that you went to Harchester, leaving my daughter here alone?”

“Her going would have given so much pleasure in the parish,” Theresa pursued, dodging the question with the ingenuity of one who scents mortal danger.  “Her refusal would, I knew, cause sincere disappointment.  I could not bring myself to accentuate that disappointment.  Not that I, of course, am of any importance save as coming from this house, as—­as—­in some degree your delegate, Sir Charles.”

“Indeed?” he said.

“Yes, indeed,” Theresa almost hysterically repeated.

For here—­if anywhere—­was her chance, as she recognized.  Never again might she be thus near to him, alone with him—­the normal routine made it wholly improbable.—­And at midnight too.  For the unaccustomed lateness of the hour undoubtedly added to her ferment, provoking in her obscure and novel hopes and hungers.  Hence she blindly and—­her action viewed from a certain angle—­quite heroically precipitated herself.  Heroically, because the odds were hopelessly adverse, her equipment, whether of natural or artificial, being so conspicuously slender.  Her attempt had no backing in play of feature, felicity of gesture, grace of diction.  The commonest little actress that ever daubed her skin with grease-paint, would have the advantage of Theresa in the thousand and one arts by which, from everlasting, woman has limed twigs for the catching of man.  Her very virtues—­respectability, learning, all the proprieties of her narrowly virtuous little life—­counted for so much against her in the present supreme moment of her self-invented romance.