A self-chastisement which may be accounted salutary, since, as he administered it, his thought again turned to a case other than his own, namely, that of Charles Verity.  To pronounce judgment on his friend’s past relations with women, whether virtuous or otherwise, was no business of his.  Whatever irregularities of conduct that friend’s earlier career may have counted, had brought their own punishment—­were indeed actually bringing it still, witness current events.  It wasn’t for him, Carteret, by the smallest fraction to add to that punishment; but rather, surely, to do all in his power to lighten the weight of it.  Here he found safe foothold.  Let him invite long-standing friendship, with the father, to help him endure the smart of unrequited love for the daughter.  To pretend these two emotions moved on the same plane and could counter-balance one another, was manifestly absurd; but that did not affect the essence of the question.  Ignoring desire, which to-night so sensibly and disconcertingly gnawed at his vitals, let him work to restore the former harmony and sweet strength of their relation.  If in the process he could obtain for Damaris—­without unseemly revelation or invidious comment—­that on which her innocent soul was set he would have his reward.—­A reward a bit chilly and meagre, it is true, as compared with—­Comparisons be damned!—­Carteret left his pacing and came back to the stone bench.

“Well, I have formed my own conclusions in respect of the whole matter.  Now tell me what you actually want me to do, and I will see how far it can be compassed, dear witch.” he said.

Damaris had risen too, but she was troubled.

“Ah!  I still spoil things,” she wailed.  “I was so happy telling you about—­about Faircloth.  And yet somehow I’ve hurt you again.  I know I have.”

Carteret took her by the elbow lightly, gently, carrying her onward beside him over the wide pallor of the asphalt.

“Hurt me, you vanitatious creature?  Against babes of your tender age, I long ago became hurt-proof”—­he gaily lied to her.  “What do you take me for?—­A fledgling like the Ditton boy, or poor Harry Ellice, with whose adolescent affections you so heartlessly played chuck-farthing at our incomparable Henrietta’s party to-night?—­No, no—­but joking apart, what exactly is it you want me to do for you?  Take you to Marseilles for the day, perhaps, to meet this remarkable young sea-captain and go over his ship?”

“He is remarkable,” Damaris chimed in, repeating the epithet with eager and happier emphasis.

“Unquestionably—­if I’m to judge both by your account of him and by the tenor of his letter.”

“And you would take me?  Oh! dear Colonel Sahib, how beautifully good you are to me.”

“Of course, I’ll take you—­if”—­

“If what?”

“If Sir Charles gives his consent.”