There was deep compassion in Crowther’s eyes as he watched him.  “I don’t think—­being a woman—­she will put it in that way,” he said, “not, that is, if she loves you.”

“How else could she put it?” demanded Piers harshly.  “Is there any other way of putting it?  I killed the man intentionally.  I told you so at the time.  The fellow who taught me the trick warned me that it would almost certainly be fatal to a heavy man taken unawares.  Why, he himself is now doing five years’ penal servitude for the very same thing.  Oh, I’m not a humbug, Crowther.  I bolted from the consequences.  You made me bolt.  But I’ve often wished to heaven since that I’d stayed and faced it out.  It would have been easier in the end, God knows.”

“My dear fellow,” Crowther said, “you will never convince me of that as long as you live.  There was nothing to gain by your staying and all to lose.  Consequences there were bound to be—­and always are.  But there was no good purpose to be served by wrecking your life.  You were only a boy, and the luck was against you.  I couldn’t have stood by and seen you dragged under.”

Piers groaned.  “I sometimes wish I was dead!” he said.

“My dear chap, what’s the good of that?” Crowther slipped his hand from his shoulder to his arm, and drew him quietly forward.  “You’ve suffered infernally, but it’s made a man of you.  Don’t forget that!  It’s the Sculptor and the Clay, lad.  He knows how best to fashion a good thing.  It isn’t for the clay to cry out.”

“Is that your point of view?” Piers spoke with reckless bitterness.  “It isn’t mine.”

“You’ll come to it,” said Crowther gently.

They walked on for a space in silence, till turning they began to ascend the winding path that led up to the hotel,—­the path which Piers had watched Crowther ascend that morning.

Side by side they mounted, till half-way up Crowther checked their progress.  “Piers,” he said, “I’m grateful to you for enduring my interference in this matter.”

“Pshaw!” said Piers, “I owe you that much anyhow.”

“You owe me nothing,” said Crowther emphatically.  “What I did for you, I did for myself.  I’ve rather a weakness—­it’s a very ordinary one too—­for trying to manage other people’s concerns.  And there’s something so fine about you that I can’t bear to stand aside and see you mess up your own.  So, sonny,—­for my satisfaction,—­will you promise me not to take a wrong turning over this?”

He spoke very earnestly, with a pleading that could not give offence.  Piers’ face softened almost in spite of him.  “You’re an awfully good chap,” he said.

“Promise me, lad!” pleaded Crowther, still holding his arm in a friendly grasp; then as Piers hesitated:  “You know, I’m an older man than you are.  I can see further.  You’ll be making your own hell if you don’t.”

“But why should I promise?” said Piers uneasily.

“Because I know you will keep a promise—­even against your own judgment.”  Simply, with absolute conviction, Crowther made reply.  “I shan’t feel happy about you—­unless you promise.”