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, inviting chivalrous forbearance.
"You are very hard," she lamented, "and you are always inclined to side with the servants against me.

You seem to take pleasure in undermining my influence, while I am so ready and anxious to devote myself to you.
You know there is nothing, nothing I would not do for you and--and for Sir Charles." Theresa choked, coughed, holding her handkerchief to her eyes.
"And what reward do I meet with ?" she asked brokenly.

"At every turn I am thwarted.