“Faircloth?  Of course, his name is Faircloth.” he repeated absently.  “Yes, of course.”

But whatever the nature of the weakness assailing him, it soon, apparently, passed.  He stood upright, his face, perhaps, a shade more colourless and lean, but in expression fully as arrogant and formidably calm as before.

“Very well, Miss Bilson,” he began.  “You have now given me all the information I require, so I need detain you no longer—­save to say this.—­You will, if you please, consider your engagement as my daughter’s companion terminated, concluded from to-night.  You are free to make such arrangements as may suit you; and you will, I trust, pardon my adding that I shall be obliged by your making them without undue delay.”

“You do not mean,” Theresa broke out, after an interval of speechless amazement—­“Sir Charles, you cannot mean that you dismiss me—­that I am to leave The Hard—­to—­to go away?”

“I mean that I have no further occasion for your services.”

Theresa waved her arms as though playing some eccentric game of ball.

“You forget the servants, the conduct of the house, Damaris’ need of a chaperon, her still unfinished education—­All are dependent upon me.”

“Hardly dependent,” he answered.  “These things, I have reason to think, can safely be trusted to other hands, or be equally safely be left to take care of themselves.”

“But why do you repudiate me?” she cried again, rushing upon her fate in the bitterness of her distraction.  “What have I done to deserve such harshness and humiliation?”

“I gave the most precious of my possessions—­Damaris—­into your keeping, and—­and—­well—­we see the result.  Is it not written large enough, in all conscience, for the most illiterate to read?—­So you must depart, my dear Miss Bilson, and for everyone’s sake, the sooner the better.  There can be no further discussion of the matter.  Pray accept the fact that our interview is closed.”

But Theresa, now sensible that her chance was in act of being finally ravished away from her, fell—­or rose—­perhaps more truly the latter—­into an extraordinary sincerity and primitiveness of emotion.  She cast aside nothing less than her whole personal legend, cast aside every tradition and influence hitherto so strictly governing her conduct and her thought.  Unluckily the physical envelope could not so readily be got rid of.  Matter retained its original mould, and that one neither seductive nor poetic.

She went down upon her fat little knees, held her fat little hands aloft as in an impassioned spontaneity of worship.

“Sir Charles,” she prayed, while tears running down her full cheeks splashed upon her protuberant bosom—­“Sir Charles”—­

He looked at the funny, tubby, jaunty, would-be smart, kneeling figure.

“Oh! you inconceivably foolish woman,” he said and turned away.

Did more than that—­walked out into the hall and to his own rooms, opening off the corridor.  In the offices a bell tinkled.  Theresa scrambled on to her feet, just as Hordle, in response to its summons, arrived at the sitting-room door.