“So now you know my little tragic history from beginning to end.  There is no accounting for love.  We follow our instincts, I suppose.  But it leads us sometimes along paths that we could never bear to travel twice.  Is there any pain, I wonder, like the pain of disillusionment, of seeing the beloved idol lying in the dust?  This is a selfish point of view, I know; but I want you to realize that you have made a mistake.  Dear Piers, I am very, very sorry it has happened.  No, not angry at all; somehow I can’t be angry.  It’s such a difficult world to live in, and there are so many influences at work.  But you must forget this wish of yours indeed—­indeed.  I am too old, too experienced, too worldly-wise, too prosaic for you in every way.  You must marry a girl who has never loved before.  You must have the first and best of a woman’s heart.  You must have ‘The True Romance.’

“That, Piers, will always be the wish and prayer of

“Your loving friend,

“AVERY.”

Piers’ hands were steady enough now.  There was something slow and fatalistic in the way they folded the letter.  He looked up from it at length with dark eyes that gazed unwaveringly before him, as though they saw a vision.

“You will be late, Monsieur Pierre,” suggested Victor softly at his elbow.

“What?” Piers turned those dreaming eyes upon him, and suddenly he laughed and stretched his arms wide as one awaking.  The steadfast look went out of his eyes; they danced with gaiety.  “Hullo, you old joker!  Well, let’s dress then and be quick about it!”

During the process it flashed upon Piers that all mention of Tudor had been avoided in the letter he had just read.  He frowned momentarily at the thought.  Had she deliberately avoided the subject?  And if so—­but on the instant his brow cleared again.  No, she had written too frankly for that.  She had not mentioned the matter simply because she regarded it as unimportant.  The great question lay between herself and him alone.  Of that he was wholly certain.  He smiled again at the thought.  No, he was not afraid of Tudor.

“Monsieur is well pleased,” murmured Victor, with a flash of his round black eyes.

“Quite well pleased, mon vieux!” laughed back Piers

“C’est bien!” said Victor, regarding him with the indulgent smile that he had bestowed upon him in babyhood.  “And Monsieur does not want his other letter?  But no—­no!”

His voice was openly quizzical; he dodged a laughing backhander from Piers with a neat gesture of apology.  It had not escaped his notice that the letter Piers had read had disappeared unobtrusively into an inner pocket.

“Who’s the other letter from?” said Piers, glancing at it perfunctorily.  “Oh, I know.  No one of importance.  She’ll keep till after dinner.”