Startled by her own prescience, and the agitation accompanying it, she
looked up quickly to find Carteret watching her; whereupon, mutely,
instinctively, her eyes besought him to ask no questions, make no
comment. For an appreciable space he kept her in suspense, his glance
holding and challenging hers in close observation. Then as though,
not without a measure of struggle, granting her request, he smiled
at her, and, turning his attention to the contents of his plate,
quietly went on with the business of luncheon. Damaris meanwhile,
conscience-stricken--she couldn't tell why--by this silent interchange
of intelligence, this silent demand on his forbearance, on his
connivance in her secrecy, laid the letter face downwards on the white
table-cloth, unopened.
Later, Sir Charles Verity being busy with his English correspondence and
Carteret having disappeared--gone for a solitary walk, as she divined,
being, as she feared, not quite pleased with her--she read it in the
security of her bedroom, seated, for greater ease, upon the polished
parquet floor just inside an open, southward-facing French window, where
the breeze coming up off the sea gently fanned her face.
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