e any inclinations towards peace-making, with which Damaris
might have begun the day, were effectively dissipated, leaving her
strengthened and confirmed in revolt. Around the stables, and the
proposed indignity put upon Patch and the horses, this wretched quarrel
centred so--as at once a vote of confidence and declaration of
independence--to the stables Damaris finally went and ordered the
dog-cart at three o'clock. For she would drive, and drive, throughout the
course of this gilded September afternoon. Drive far away from foolishly
officious and disingenuous Theresa, far from Deadham, so tiresome just
now in its irruption of tea-parties and treats. She would behold peaceful
inland horizons, taste the freedom of spirit and the content which the
long, smooth buff-coloured roads, leading to unknown towns and unvisited
country-side, so deliciously give.

She stood at the front door, in blue linen gown, white knitted jersey and
white sailor hat, buttoning her tan doeskin driving-gloves, a gallant,
gravely valiant young creature, beautifully unbroken as yet by any real
assent to the manifold foulness of life--her faith in the nobility of
human nature and human destiny still finely intact. And that was just
where her revolt against poor Theresa Bilson came in. For Theresa broke
the accepted law, being ignoble; and thereby spoiled the fair pattern,
showed as a blot.--Not that she meant to trouble any more about Theresa
just now. She was out simply to enjoy, to see and feel, rather than
reason, analyse or think. So she settled herself on the sloping
high-cushioned seat, bracing her feet against the driving iron, while
Mary, reaching up, tucked the dust-rug neatly about her skirts.
Patch--whose looks and figure unmistakably declared his
calling--short-legged and stocky, inclining to corpulence yet nimble on
his feet, clean shaven, Napoleonic of countenance, passed reins and whip
into her hands as Tolling, the groom, let go the horse's head.

The girl squared her shoulders a little, and the soft colour deepened in
her cheeks, as she swung the dog-cart down the drive and out of the
entrance gate into the road--here a green-roofed tunnel, branches meeting
overhead, thickly carpeted with dry sand blown inward from the beach--and
on past the whitewashed cottages, red brick and grey stone houses of
Deadham village, their gardens pleasant with flowers, and with apple and
pear trees weighted down by fruit. Past the vicarage and church