Her design and her scrutiny were easier of prosecution that, during the last few minutes, Faircloth had retired into silence, and an attitude of abstraction.  Sitting rather forward upon the sofa, his legs crossed, nursing one blue serge trousered knee with locked hands, his glance travelled thoughtfully over the quiet, low-toned room and its varied contents.  Later, sought the window opposite, and ranged across the garden and terrace walk, with its incident of small ancient cannon, to the long ridge of the Bar—­rising, bleached, wind-swept, and notably deserted under the colourless sunshine, beyond the dark waters of the tide river which raced tumultuously seaward in flood.

Seen thus in repose—­and repose is a terrible tell-tale,—­the lines of the young man’s face and figure remained firm, gracefully angular and definite.  No hint of slackness or sloppiness marred their effect.  The same might be said of his clothes, which though of ordinary regulation colour and cut—­plus neat black tie and stiff-fronted white shirt, collar, and wristbands—­possessed style, and that farthest from the cheap or flashy.  Only the gold bangle challenged Damaris’ taste as touching on florid; but its existence she condoned in face of its wearer’s hazardous and inherently romantic calling.  For the sailor may, surely, be here and there permitted a turn and a flourish, justly denied to the safe entrenched landsman.

If outward aspects were thus calculated to engage her approval and agreeably fill in her projected picture, that which glimmered through them—­divined by her rather than stated, all being necessarily more an affair of intuition than of knowledge—­gave her pleasure of richer quality.  High-tempered she unquestionably read him, arrogant and on occasion not inconceivably remorseless; but neither mean nor ungenerous, his energy unwasted, his mind untainted by self-indulgence.  If he were capable of cruelty to others, he was at least equally capable of turning the knife on himself, cutting off or plucking out an offending member.  This appealed to the heroic in her.  While over her vision, as she thus considered him, hung the glamour of youth which, to youth, displays such royal enchantments—­untrodden fields of hope and promise inviting the tread of eager feet, the rush of glorious goings forward towards conquests, towards wonders, well assured, yet to be.  The personality of this man clearly admitted no denial, as little bragged as it apologized, since his candour matched his force of will.

Taking stock of him thus, from the corner of the sofa, imagination, intelligence, affections alike actively in play, Damaris’ colour rose, her pulse quickened, and her great eyes grew wide, finely and softly gay.

Faircloth moved.  Turned his head.  Met her eyes, and looking into them his face blanched perceptibly under its couche of sunburn.