The discovery of Damaris

She had a beautiful bit of tapestry on her lap. Quickly and deftly her fingers were forming wonderful flowers of rich colours. But her eyes were not always on her work. The window was open. On the opposite side of the street was the entrance porch of a private hotel. Motors and taxis drove to and from it continually, and Damaris's grey observant eyes noted all the arrivals and departures. A little smile flitted over her face as she watched an old lady and gentleman descend with difficulty from a taxi. An elderly maid followed them into the hotel, laden with bags and shawls and leading a King Charles spaniel behind her.

"They've come up again," murmured Damaris to herself. "I wonder if their daughter will come and see them to-morrow? I am sure she does not enjoy their visits to town."

A smart motor now claimed her attention. A mother and two very pretty daughters, escorted by a handsome man, alighted, and with a great deal of laughter and talk swept into the hotel.

A little sigh came from Damaris's lips.

"Such a good time going on, so close to me; and yet I might be in another world altogether."

"If you please, Miss, your Uncle Ambrose wants you!"

Damaris started at the voice. An elderly parlourmaid stood inside the door. She lumped up lightly from her seat, letting her work drop upon the carpet, and, throwing her arms above her head, gave a yawn.

"I'm coming, Stevens. It isn't tea-time, surely?"

"Very close to it," said the maid. "But your Uncle Simeon has brought a visitor in."

"Oh!" sighed the girl. "Another old man, I suppose!"

She followed the maid out of the room. The stairs were dark polished oak, and uncarpeted; the banisters beautifully carved; and the dark-panelled walls were lined with many gems of art.

Lightly she ran down two flights of stairs, and pushed open the door of the big drawing-room, or library as her uncles preferred to call it.

Two old white-haired men were standing by the window talking eagerly to a young one. They all turned at Damaris's entrance.

"Damaris, this is your Cousin Dane. You have never seen him. He has taken us by surprise. Landed from India this morning. He got sick-leave suddenly."

Dane held out his hand in friendly greeting.

He saw and noted the pride and grace of the girlish figure. She wore a blue-grey gown, and a few yellow daffodils were tucked into her belt.

"Cousin Damaris, isn't it?" he said, a smile lightening up his dark and rather stern-cut features. "If not first cousins, we are second, are we not?"

"Of course, you are second cousins!" said Ambrose Hartbrook sharply. "Now, Damaris, see that a room is prepared for Dane at once. You can give him the Sheraton room."

Damaris wheeled round and left the room as quickly as she had entered.

"Does my Cousin Damaris live with you?" asked the young man.

"Yes, her parents both died when she was a child. She has been at school till about three years ago; since then she has made her home with us. A good useful girl, but rather sleepy in disposition. I daresay she will make a good wife to someone some day."

Damaris caught the words as she closed the door. Her small head raised itself proudly, and a hot colour came into her cheeks.

"If a good wife simply means a good housekeeper, then, Uncle Ambrose, never, 'never!'" she muttered to herself.

She was not seen again till dinner time. She entered the library then, looking very fresh and girlish in a soft white silk gown. Dane Hartbrook's eyes noted her every tone and gesture. She did not speak much during dinner, which was served in old-fashioned state, and took a full hour to get through.

Then she left her uncles and their guest to their wine, and went back to the library, where she sat in a straight-backed carved chair and gazed broodingly into the fire. She did not turn her head when the door opened, but started when a voice said, close to her ear—

"Thank goodness, a visitor has arrived who is talking furniture shop. Now you can tell me what I want to know. Are our uncles in trade? Their talk is of nothing but choice objects of art—chiefly chairs and tables."

Damaris looked at him and smiled. He stood opposite her on the hearth-rug but did not return her smile. His brows were knitted.

"Do they keep show-rooms?" he persisted. "They talk of the 'Sheraton room,' and the 'Chippendale,' and the 'Jacobean,' and the 'Grinling Gibbons,' and goodness knows how many others! Uncle Simeon is now discoursing upon some old copper urns."

"No, they're not in trade," Damaris said simply; "they've made a hobby of antique things, and spend all their money on it. To have a room with one flaw or false note in it makes them miserable. Every different room depicts a different age. They will show you through the house to-morrow. But they won't show you my room. I have taken care to ensure privacy there. I have been allowed to pick up odds and ends of no particular value scattered over the house, and I've bunched them all together, and I don't care a button what period they belong to!"

Her tone was so emphatic that Dane began to smile.

"Uncle Simeon writes articles in the 'Connoisseur;' he writes and reads more than Uncle Ambrose does. Uncle Ambrose hunts in old curio shops, and goes sometimes all over the Continent after some treasure which he has discovered can be bought. If you want really to bring horror to their hearts, give them some pretty article, new or faked."

She paused. A softer look stole over her face.

"They are very good and kind to me. I don't want to laugh at them or criticise them; but with all the world before them and around them, it seems such waste to live and breathe in an atmosphere of old furniture!"

Dane drew in a long breath.

"And what do you do with yourself?" he asked, letting his eyes rest on her with pleased interest.

Damaris raised her head proudly.

"I am never idle," she said, with sweet aloofness in her tone.

"I suppose you have friends of your own?"

For some reason Damaris resented this catechism. She did not reply. She would liked to have said, "I am an upper servant in the house—a servant without wages. I concoct special polishes for the maids to use upon the furniture; I superintend their work and dust the valuable china. I am not allowed to pay visits or ask anyone to the house. I am a good useful girl, and will stay here until they find a husband for me. And it will be a husband of their liking, not mine!"

All this she thought, but pride and innate dignity kept her lips closed. Then, with a flash in her eyes, she turned the tables upon him.