scape,
the same foreboding of some danger against which she must provide.
Always, too, it seemed to hinge upon Tom Verity's visit, and something in
her relation to the young man himself which she could not define. She
revolved the question now--Theresa being safely packed off to her
tea-party--in shade of the ilex trees, with solemn eyes and finely
serious face.

There was not anything unusual in receiving visitors at The Hard. Men
came often to see her father, and she took her share in entertaining all
such comers as a matter of course. Some she "didn't much care about,"
some she liked. But, with the exception of Colonel Carteret from
childhood her trusted friend and confidant, their coming and going was
just part of the accustomed routine, a survival from the life at the
Indian summer palace of long ago, and made no difference. Yet, though she
was still uncertain whether she did like Tom Verity or not, his coming
and going had indisputably made a difference. It marked, indeed, a new
departure in her attitude and thought. Her world, before his advent, was
other than that in which she now dwelt.

For one thing, Tom was much younger than the majority of her father's
guests--a man not made but still early in the making, the glamour of
promise rather than the stark light of finality upon him. This affected
her; for at eighteen, a career, be it never so distinguished, which has
reached its zenith, in other words reached the end of its tether, must
needs have a touch of melancholy about it. With the heat of going on in
your own veins, the sight of one who has no further go strikes chill to
the heart. And so, while uncertain whether she quite trusted him or not,
Damaris--until the unlucky running away episode--had taken increasing
pleasure in this new cousin's company. It both interested and diverted
her. She had not only felt ready to talk to him; but,--surprising
inclination!--once the ice of her natural reserve broken, to talk to him
about herself.

Half-shyly she dwelt upon his personal appearance.--A fine head and
clever face, the nose astute, slightly Jewish in type, so she thought.
His eyes were disappointing, too thickly brown in colour, too opaque.
They told you nothing, were indeed curiously meaningless; and, though
well set under an ample brow, were wanting in depth and softness owing to
scantiness of eyelash. But his chin satisfied her demands. It was square,
forcible, slightly cleft; and his mouth, below the f