mud-flats, any more than over
luscious garden scents, tainted the atmosphere. It was virgin as the soil
of the moorland--a soil as yet untamed and unfertilized by the labour of
man. And this effect of virginity, even though a trifle _farouche_,
harsh, and barren in the perfection of its purity, appealed to Damaris'
present mood. Her spirit leapt to meet it in proud fellowship. For it
routed forebodings. Discounted introspective broodings. Discounted even
the apparently inevitable--since nobody and nothing, so the young girl
told herself with a rush of gladly resolute conviction, is really
inevitable unless you permit or choose to have them so.--Gallant this,
and the mother of brave doings; though--as Damaris was to discover later,
to the increase both of wisdom and of sorrow--a half-truth only. For man
is never actually master of people or of things; but master, at most, of
his own attitude towards them. In this alone can he claim or exercise
free-will.

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With a sigh and a sense of loss--as though noble companions had withdrawn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