The stream consecrated to Theresa's woes--Theresa herself being no longer materially present--declined in volume and in force, while that commanded by Felicia's affection for her brother soon rushed down in spate.

Perhaps, as she told herself, it was partly owing to the light--which, if pensive upstairs in the white-walled schoolroom, might, without exaggeration, be called quite dismally gloomy in the low-ceilinged dining-room looking out on the black mass of the ilex trees over a havoc of storm-beaten flower-beds--but Sir Charles struck her as so worn, so aged, so singularly and pathetically sad.

He was still so evidently oppressed by anxiety concerning Damaris that, to hint at harsh action on his part, or plead Theresa's cause with convincing earnestness and warmth, became out of the question.

Miss Verity hadn't the heart for it.
"Be true to your profession of good Samaritan, my dear Felicia," he begged her with a certain rueful humour, "and take the poor foolish woman off my hands.

Plant her where you like, so long as it is well out of my neighbourhood.