she
enquired, with a suddenly anxious, edgy little laugh.

"I am afraid I have a lot to say, some of which you won't like."

"How so?" Theresa cried, still playfully. "You must see how natural and
reasonable my suggestion is." Then becoming admonitory. "You should learn
to think a little more of others.--It is a bad habit to offer opposition
simply for opposition's sake."

"I do not oppose you for the mere pleasure of opposing," Damaris began,
determined her voice should not shake. "But I'm sorry to say, I can't
agree to the horses being used to draw a loaded brake. I could not ask
Patch. He would refuse and be quite right in refusing. It's not their
work--nor his work either."

She leaned forward, trying to speak civilly and gently.

"There are some things you don't quite understand about the stables, or
about the servants--the things which can't be done, which it's impossible
to ask.--No,--wait, please--please let me finish"--

For between astonishment, chagrin, and an inarticulate struggle to
protest, Miss Bilson's complexion was becoming almost apoplectic and her
poor fat little cheeks positively convulsed.

"I dislike saying such disagreeable things to you, but it can't be
avoided. It would be cowardly of me not to tell you the truth.--You shall
have the brougham the day after to-morrow, and I'll write to Miss Minett
in the morning, and tell her you will call for her and her sister, on
your way to Marychurch, and that you will bring them back at night. I
will give Patch his orders myself, so that there may be no confusion. And
I will subscribe a pound to the expenses of the choir treat. That is all
I can promise in the way of help."

"But--but--Damaris, think of the position in which you place me! I cannot
be thrust aside thus. I will not submit. It is so humiliating, so--so--I
offered the horses. I told the vicar he might consider it settled about
the extra brake"--

"I know. That was a mistake. You had no right to make such an offer."

For justice must take its course. Theresa must be saved from herself.
Still her implacable young saviour, in proportion as victory appeared
assured, began to feel sad. For it grew increasingly plain that Theresa
was not of the stuff of which warriors, any more than saints, are made.
Stand up to her and she collapsed like a pricked bubble.--So little was
left, a scum of colourless soap suds, in which very certainly there is no
fight. Again she showed a pitiful being, inv