now, since Sir Charles was about to return, permanently exiled
Theresa--our maiden went upstairs, in the tender evening light, on
domestic cares intent. She wished to assure herself that the chintz
bedroom, opening off the main landing and overlooking the lawn and front
garden, had been duly made ready for Colonel Carteret. She took a
somewhat wistful pleasure in silently ministering to his possible small
needs in the matter of sufficient wealth of towels, candles and soap. She
lengthened out the process. Lingered, rearranged the ornaments upon the
mantelpiece, the bunch of sweet-leafed geranium--as yet unshrivelled by
frost--and belated roses, placed in a vase upon the toilet-table.

In so doing she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, and paused,
studying it. Her looks were not at their best. She was wan.--That might,
in part, be owing to the waning light. Around her eyes were dark circles,
making them appear unnaturally large and solemn. So yesterday's emotions
had left their mark! The nervous strain had been considerable and she
showed it. One cannot drink the cup of shame, however undeserved, with
physical any more than with mental impunity. She still felt a little
shattered, but hoped neither her father nor Carteret would remark her
plight. If the whole affair of yesterday could, in its objectionable
aspects, be kept from Sir Charles's knowledge she would be infinitely
glad. And why shouldn't it be? Without permission, Aunt Felicia certainly
would not tell. Neither would the servants. The parish had given
testimony, this afternoon, both of its good faith and its discretion.

So much for the objectionable side of the matter. But there was another
side, far from objectionable, beautiful in sentiment and in promise. And,
still viewing her reflection in the glass, she saw her eyes lose their
solemnity, lighten with a smile her lips repeated. This was where
Carteret's advice would be of so great value. How much ought she to tell
her father of all that?

For, from amidst the shame, the anger, the strain and effort, Faircloth
showed, to her thinking, triumphant, satisfying alike to her affection
and her taste. In no respect would she have asked him other than he was.

She moved across to the window, and sat down there, looking out over the
garden and battery, with its little cannons, to the Bar, and sea beyond
which melted into the dim primrose and silver of the horizon. Such colour
as existed was soft, soothi