DAMARIS sat at her window, work in hand. She was in a big upper room of a very old house in a quiet London square. It was her own room, and in the soft spring sunshine of that March afternoon it looked very attractive and comfortable. A thick Persian carpet was underfoot; the walls were covered with coffee-coloured paper, and all sorts and sizes of pictures hung upon them, from tiny water-colour paintings to heavy oil and a few very valuable and ancient prints. There was a low bookcase on one side of the fireplace, with some beautiful old china bowls resting on the top of it. There was a writing-table in one window, and a jar of yellow daffodils upon it. A chintz-covered couch was drawn up …
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