erved, indirectly, to put a term to
his patter. For Sir Charles Verity, raising his voice slightly in passing
emphasis, turned and moved slowly towards the little company gathered at
the tea-table. His two companions followed, the shorter of them
apparently making answer, the words echoing clearly in genial richness of
affirmation across the intervening space--"And so it was, General, am I
not recalling the incident myself? Indeed you're entirely right."

"Come," Damaris said, with a certain brevity as of command.

"And feel a worm?"

"No--come and speak to my father."

"Ah! I shall feel a worm there too," the young man returned, an engaging
candour in his smiling countenance; "and with far better reason, unless I
am greatly mistaken."

CHAPTER IV

WATCHERS THROUGH THE SMALL HOURS

Love, ill-health and debt being, as yet, unknown quantities to young Tom
Verity, it followed that insomnia, with its thousand and one attendant
miseries, was an unknown quantity likewise. Upon the eve of the stiffest
competitive examination those, now outlived, years of tutelage had
imposed on him, he could still tumble into bed secure of lapsing into
unconsciousness as soon as his head fairly touched the pillow. Dreams
might, and usually did, visit him; but as so much incidental music
merely to the large content of slumber--tittering up and down, too
airily light-footed and evanescent to leave any impress on mind or
spirits when he woke.

This night, at Deadham Hard, marked a new departure; sleep proving a less
absolute break in continuity of sensation, a less absolute barrier
between day and day.

The Honourable Augustus and Mrs. Cowden, and Felicia Verity, not without
last words, adjurations, commands and fussings, started on their
twelve-mile drive home to Paulton Lacy about six o'clock. A little later
Dr. McCabe conveyed himself, and his brogue, away in an ancient hired
landau to catch the evening train from Marychurch to Stourmouth. Dinner
followed, shortly after which Damaris vanished, along with her
governess-companion, Miss Theresa Bilson--a plump, round-visaged,
pink-nosed little person, permanently wearing gold eyeglasses, the
outstanding distinction of whose artless existence consisted, as Tom
gathered from her conversation, in a tour in Rhineland and residence of
some months' duration at the university town of Bonn.

Then, at last, came the harvest of the young man's excursion, in the
shape of first-hand reco