'I cannot say: I am only her teacher.'
'And who is her lover?' mused Béthune, as he walked slowly out of the grey courtyard in the gloaming. His suspicions drifted to Loswa.
Rosselin went within and mounted a low wooden staircase which led to the door of Damaris's chamber.
'Come out and bid me good-night, my dear. If I loiter I shall lose the last train to Paris.'
She obeyed him and came outside her door.
'Why did you avoid Béthune?' he asked her. 'He is a gentleman and a soldier; he is a man you may respect and who will respect you; though he is a great noble he is an honest fellow. He is one of the few lovers who have worshipped Othmar's wife without losing dignity or honour.'
Damaris did not answer. She could not well have defined why she had come within doors. There was a certain pain to her in the presence of Béthune because he was associated with that one day so big, for her, with fate.
Rosselin looked at her as she stood in the twilight at the head of the stairs. There was an open window behind her, a hand's breadth of blue sky, a bough of pear heavy with fruit.
'Why did you not mention Othmar to him?' he said abruptly; 'you mentioned her.'
'I do not know.' said Damaris. She spoke the truth. She did not know why she was always reluctant to speak of him.